Sweet Silent Thought
by Euphora
Summary: Life: a progressive cycle, a series of instances lasting onto the next. Encounters, departures, tentative friends entwined... irrevocably, at last. Character exploration of Arya... E/A
1. Ambivalence

READ: Thus more, here I am, unscathed and ludicrously oblivious to anything other than my own moral fibers… and this lovely packet of rewarding Oreo's seated to my left, which I shall eat within the next five minutes of my tedious life. In the mean time, however, I have written this: A long, woeful, depressing, ominous, relatively fabulous in every detailed way, oh-so charming chinwags and chitchats written for your leisure's indulgence (staring two familiar protagonists), and in the end, when it all dramatically unravels and becomes typically obvious, SEX! -_-

Alas, tis' a very long read, and I will not be held accountable for jet-lag.

**Story Playlist:**  
>Graeme Revell – Elektra<br>Frederick Rousseau - La Fille De Pekin  
>James Horner – Prima Noctes<br>Hans Zimmer – Old Souls  
>Scrying For Arya<p>

All of these beautiful compositions compelled me further in my writings. I highly recommend listening to either one of them while reading this. It'll pretty much… aid the mood, a lot.

_**SERIOUSLY, PLEASE NOTE: Some uncanny quantum physics theories suggest that when the reader is not directly observing this story, it may cease to exist or will only exist in a vague and undisclosed state of mind**_**…** _**like mine. Therefore, I hereby observe this story as my own, and in rightfully doing so, I've incidentally used characters and scenes not of my own creation which you may, perhaps, notice in this fabulous document. Failure to notice these ridiculous concepts is your own fault, and therefore not my own. Anyone here who disputes this disclaimer as either incredulous or completely dull-witted can respectfully kiss my ass. Cheers!  
><strong>_

Oh, and another thing. Enjoy. You guys have earned it.

* * *

><p><strong>When to the session's of sweet silent thought,<br>I summer up remembrance of things past,  
>I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,<br>And with old woes new wail my dear times waste.**

_**William Shakespeare: When to the Session's of Sweet Silent Thought **_

**PART ONE  
>Ambivalence<strong>

For Arya Dröttningu, a vague and distinct line between the realm of dreams and the orbit of reality simply held one ultimatum among life; a choice of belief amid a fickle hope, or an unexplained but desperate longing through elusive temptations and moral needs. And although this choice left many perplexed, for her it simply meant a life worth living. For her it was meaning, a search for integrity and adventure, a foregoing departure for independence and significance. Nothing more seemed apparent other than that. She knew what she wanted, and it even seemed simple enough to grasp amongst an obscured darkness riddled with calamity. The choices were there, but instead she defied them for her meaning in the world. First she would live, and then she would choose.

But perhaps defying what is simply meant to be is the choice of reality itself, _her_ reality in which she was meant to live. But she would never know it until the life she once knew became the truth of her very existence. The need and temptations she would firsthand deny would be the meaning she was searching for, and she would finally succumb to those very desires she once thought irrational and trivial. She would never know it of course, not yet, but she would need them now, more than anything.

But she would never know it until, of course, it becomes her reality.

* * *

><p><em>I would mind your manner if I were you, sir. <em>Her voice is stern and riddled with venom. Although she speaks to herself, she speaks no more then what will soon come if this foolish brute and his followers continued in their daze to grasp her attention. They were wallowing in their futile attempts, and she knew it, and she rejoices in this knowledge.

"Come now, my pretty lady," he grunts quite embarrassingly, "Would you not give kindness and accept a drink on behalf of my gratitude? Or my fellow kinsmen here?" he smiles slyly, leaning closer on the floors of his hands, "They do not take such ill said refusals as I do, pretty lady." And at this, the other men laugh mirthlessly.

"There is no gratitude to be had here, sir, but merely foolishness to be tempered with," she remarks harshly, unamused by these uninvited brutes, keeping her face well hidden within the confinements of the hood that conceals her. She waits.

The men, two of which were standing on either side of her small table situated in this far corner of the inn, scowled angrily at her tease, the fever of alcohol making their leathery cheeks flushed with light headiness in their rejection once more. The one that was unkindly sitting at her table clenches his fists in resentment, glaring at her like a heated zealot without satisfaction. The one that continued his faze lifted a finger at her and shook it sternly as if to warn her, his own anger apparent even in his drunken state and waving posture of unsteadiness. "Not… very nice, eh? Even for a hooded missus." He made a quick gesture, and suddenly the man to her left hooked a finger underneath the edge of her hood, attempting to toss it over her head to reveal the lady from within the darkness, but she is quick to perceive this.

So quickly she was when she grasps his wrist tightly from any further access, so fast and so agile were her lithe movements that they were unaware of such eased acts, but astounded when she left the man whimpering. It wasn't human, it wasn't natural, and her uncanny motion became apparent to them even within their befuddled state.

She releases him and returns to her previous condition, unmoving and still in her seat as they scowl. Her hood collapses around her neck, revealing her face from amid its cascading shadow, falling to her shoulders as the four men gazed at her humanistic appearance in their angered relief and prevailment, although she is neither as she waits unexpectedly in her own resentment, simply waiting and unwavering.

"But no more, eh, pretty lady?" he sniggers, and the men around her laugh, but she is not listening.

She would have replied, eventually dealing with him _and_ his brutes in their own deserving manor and contemptuous judgement, but Arya stiffens suddenly in her seat, cautious and optimistic. Someone had invaded her mind. _Was_ invading! But again, she is quick to intercept this as everything else around her remains but a mere blur. Her mind is sealed in unfailing, impenetrable steel barricades outmatched by none, and someone would dare touch her conscious? Not in a foul, oppressive place such as this. She could feel them now, and they knew it. They were searching, for reasons unknown to her. But whom?

Unless…

And then her relief washes over her almost instantly, and she knew then.

_Eragon!_

A familiar voice. _Arya?_

And then she sees him, afar in the inn with a bewildered look upon his artistic-like features. Their eyes scarcely meet amongst the blur for a tentative moment before the crowd overlaps and thickens once more, hiding him in his reformed shock. He was searching, just as she was waiting, but no more at last.

The men around her, still hankering in their futile attempts to sway her, remained oppressively unaware of the following proceedings but a moment ago, even when Eragon finally emerges among the crowd to her table, they're oblivious. The man fighting pointlessly for her unyielding attention turns suddenly to meet him; his face tempered with rage and heated contempt. Eragon, however, remains emotionless and selflessly unfazed by these gestures, unmoving and still as he looks at the man challenging him, waiting.

"You're awful rude; barging in on us uninvited-like," he says, his mouth bitter with the night's endless drink, "Best make yourself scarce, eh?"

"It seems to me, gentlemen, that the lady would rather be left alone," his use of formal pronunciations and words hid the disguised plague of insults he covered effortlessly in his diplomatic tone, but of course, neither one of them could muster the understanding of his formal and informal ways as she did. Beneath the politeness and casual formalities he provided spontaneously, was the rider who wanted none other than to put these men into their rightful place, but could neither do that or act upon it unless be seen or noticed as the Varden rider. Although he hid it well, his human-elf like face stood out above anything else, despite the headband concealing his ears. At least he knew to stay among the shadows created by his past race, and for this she was grateful.

He reasons with them, chooses his words carefully and remains perfectly eased despite the fools objections and ignorance, especially within the drunken state they were in. Humans and their peculiar need to constantly fuel their bellies with ale. It was such a foolish thing to lose yourself in, one of the few human interests Arya never understood.

She watches these men now, even as Eragon deals with them, and sees only ignorant dull-heads who willingly loose themselves in liquid that simply turns them into nothing but vile, corruptible men with no understanding. What pointless ways to spend living one's life.

"I'm not sure I believe you, _friend_," the man says, taking a step toward Eragon and breathing upon his face. The other men begin to slowly edge away from her respectfully, taking the heed Eragon had obviously given them, but the one looking at him now remained where he stood. "You're just trying to drive us away so you can be with her yourself."

_Idiot… _Although, regrettably, when she looks to Eragon for his response, there's a flinch upon his brow that only she could possibly see, and she sighs despondently.

He leans forward suddenly, speaking quietly so the others couldn't hear, but she picks up on it effortlessly.

"I assure you," he whispers, "She is my sister. Please, sir, I have no quarrel with you. Won't you go?"

"Not when I think you're a lying milksop!"

As of now she thinks how ridiculous the situation has become. Her reasons for altering her appearance had proven worthy for short a time, but it would be a matter of time itself until someone would notice her_ human _looks, and still they would be mesmerized no matter her efforts to conceal the elf within her. Now she simply wishes Eragon could be done with this fool and lop off his head, but to do so would cause a large rift that would bring nothing but unwanted attention that neither could afford. They were wasting time.

She had left in search for him, and now she found him, but how much longer would they delay if this attention would constantly come about? Altering ones appearance would do nothing, as she had learned. But they needed to be on their way to avoid the alternative that could prove grave; Murtagh or even possible, Galbatorix.

"Sir, be reasonable," although his voice remained the soft, untainted use of casual politeness, beneath it were small remnants of his impatience beginning to unfold and hinder at this man's ignorance, "There's no need for this unpleasantness. The night is young, and there's drink and music aplenty. Let's not quarrel about such a petty misunderstanding. It's beneath us."

_Beneath us indeed… Let us be done with this already! _She was content to allow Eragon to reason with him in kind, but if this idiot continued to foolishly squander over her and matters pointless to meaning, then she would soon gladly take reasons into her own hands and begone with this fool. But to her relief and Eragons by the looks of it, the man relaxed after a few seconds and wallowed a scornful grunt uttered through his failure. At this, she allowed a hint of a smile to appear on her face. At last.

"I wouldn't want to fight a youngling like you anyway," he said, and walked away amongst the oblivious crowd, his kinsmen following in pursuit after a second glance toward Eragon, then leaving.

His eyes were still fixed amid the crowd when he finally slipped behind the table and took a seat next to her, for reasons she didn't know nor wanted to know. Perhaps he was still transfixed on the men, who could turn and report this little incident to the soldiers situated on the other side of the inn, making a mock of themselves, and then attention would find them. That she couldn't allow.

"What are you doing here?" He suddenly asked, his eyes weaving back and sitting upon her, waiting.

"Searching for you." She simply responded, and still he looked surprised, his eyes averting back toward the crowd as he smiled.

"Are you alone?"

"No longer… Did you rent a bed for the night?" She asked silently, but he shook his head.

_Excellent… _"Good. I already have a room. We can talk there."

They rose, and she walked ahead as he followed after. She stole a quick glance at the men who failed at their attempts to acquire her attention, rejoicing for Eragons quick timing…

For if he'd not come to interfere, she would have surely sent them home dismembered. What a pity…

* * *

><p>"<em>You didn't have to come looking for me, you know. I was fine." <em>He had said, and his voice had never been more sincere to the predicament. She knew him well enough to know when he wasn't, but that was rarely on most parts. His eyes however, at the time, had looked profoundly resilient to any subtle emotion he may or may not have felt during the course of his assertion to her.

As she lies quietly upon the bed within the darkened room of the inn, the restless night is staged and sombre in the budding hours of darkness. All is quiet, all is adamantly still. Still and… stagnant. Although, given the reality of their plight, _they _were not. And it is with a curious thought of uncertainty that Arya's eyes remained passively fixed upon the open window, thinking little of it, but all the more cautious of the possibility of impending intruders. Agitated, she lays quietly and motionlessly, fixated upon the enclosure of night.

But she can hear him now. Upon the lulled awakening of darkness and anxiety, she can perceive his attention on her. The steady rise and fall of Eragons subdued breathing near the door is perhaps the only sound she could distinguish within the night. He's watching her, listening to her as much as she is him. Perhaps he himself is unaware of her slight perception to his stare upon her turned back. But nevertheless, she knew he was watching her. Watching her, listening to her, and resolved to sit there doing so until dawn. However, despite the sudden grasp of wakefulness to this truth, she remains still.

Tomorrow would be a new day, if ever different. Though untimely, they must depart early within the morning's lucidity before the dawn. It was a tenuous fortitude of refuge, but one they must accomplish nevertheless away from here, away from the Empire. Only upon the endurance of his safety would she feel somewhat at ease. Correspondingly, if they could flee and diverge to the Varden without any fatalities on their part, then she could presumably find comfort within the waking reality of their safety, and that _Eragon_ would be safe and she would no longer have to harbor any delicate concerns for his security.

And although she is rather bitter for his unpredictable nature, it has always abundantly intrigued her just how much he and Brom are alike in so many uncanny ways… and yet, alas, he regrettably yields under the staggering knowledge that he is Morzans youngest.

And that has always aggrieved her. It has saddened her, irritated her, but not for the reasons others perceive.

She is distressed because he resents himself. He proclaims himself incurably as the progeny of evil. Born into a name of malice, he is despised by not others, but by himself. She is by no means irritated or saddened because he names himself inferior. She is, by any means, _not _aggrieved because he's the prodigal son of Morzan and the brother of a traitor. No, never. She is saddened because he is intolerable of the reality of himself and his very continuation in life, and it lingers dejectedly over his independence.

"_Of course I did." _She had said, and in what other way could she possibly be more sincere?

Because he will never know the actuality of his importance to others, and this agonizes her. His subsistence in the eyes of many, his vitality, his strength. He is ignorant of his own capacity and his aptitude of life, and this burdens her. He will live on, for eternity, without normality, without the possibility to aspire into something larger than what is already expected of him, and this, by far, hurts her.

Because… unlike others, she holds him in esteem for his faults, for his ability to feel beyond them and to accept them, to perfect them. Admiration and consolation for someone can be, in itself, reassuring, perhaps even for her. She knew that he admired her. She knew that his consolation for her extended far beyond that of a friend… she knew this, he knew this, but it was his capacity to move beyond its disenchantment that made her feel somewhat… calm, with him. He could move beyond Morzan, beyond Murtagh, beyond her…

In spite of this… he will still be, unfortunately, encumbered by feelings needless to him. It was only human, of course.

And that is why she must keep silent, even as his lingering stare upon her turned back consoles her. As he watched her, listened to her, Arya too perceived him in the darkness as he did to her.

She sighs.

* * *

><p>"That's it, then, isn't it? We're done." His voice utters quietly like a hushed whispered call through the bloodstained air, as if greatly in need for such tending comfort of which she can neither give nor create. Although he does not show it, she can easily decipher it through his lingering cascade of guilt.<p>

And as her eyes glazed upon the dead they unwillingly slaughtered through a massacre depicted by no more than petty misunderstandings, she beings to wonder through the realization of what they've unintentionally created.

"_You're a monster!" _he had cried, the only words Arya had perceived before his death. The last surviving soldier, before Eragon had lapped his arm around the poor man's neck and snapped it without hesitation, leaving him to plunder soundlessly in his arms as he laid him to rest on the earth among his kinsmen, who died far worse a death then his own. "_Why are you doing this? You're a monster!" _No more he was, after Eragon laid him to rest, now and forever.

It had bothered her, how Eragon could kill a man with his bare hands, and yet leave that inexcusable folly of man he called Sloan unwounded and pardoned of all deeds. What difference proved greater? It didn't make sense. And when she had asked this of him she felt none other the shamed to be instructed by him, because he was right. No matter the casualties, he would kill if any proved to be a threat, and leave those who weren't. In any sense, it was genuine, yet unexpectedly profound and intriguing that he would willingly kill if instructed by, yet would never take it upon himself to kill if the choice was given. And in most sense, such acts of mercy are known rarely. Not even Brom held that kind of decency.

She watched him survey the dead, counting the bodies through the plains, staring at him with a strange sense of understanding as he then collects his armour discarded throughout the massacre. He was troubled, that she knew, although was hesitant to understand why. She had guessed first more or less, but it was undeniably taking one's life that disturbed him more. He was still so young, yet experienced beyond all his years by far, but still too young to take a life. This she knew well. She had only been twenty three before taking her first, and it nearly destroyed her. Eragon however, was only sixteen…

Before she could contemplate further in the matter, he was there suddenly, standing beside her upon the hillock overlooking the ground below. At this she turned to him slightly, looking at him as he starred at the corpses they created. "We had best avoid the roads from now on," she said quietly. She had been going over the matter countless times, and after this little tirade, the roads would no longer be safe for them to travel, "We cannot risk another encounter with Galbatorix's men."

When he had only nodded in response, her eyes unintentionally gazed upon his deformed and disjointed hand he held throbbing against his bloodstained tunic, its mangled and useless form cradled unmoving against him. Upon realizing her thoughts, she indicated to his hand, saying, "You should tend to that before we leave." She left him no time to respond to her gesture. Already decided, she grasped his hand before he could register her actions, gently placed it in her own and uttered quietly, "Waíse heill." He groaned, his fingers involuntary popping back into their sockets, the cartilage once crushed began regaining its fullness upon his hand, the skin seeping together to cover the torn and raw flesh below, and slowly his hand became whole again and redefined like it were never disfigured and mauled by the struck of his powerful blow.

As the spell ended, Arya dropped his hand carefully as he flexed it, opening and closing it to confirm it was indeed healed from any previous injuries. "Thank you," he whispered softly, his eyes suddenly upon her with a strange sense of longing kindness he wished to share, but could never say. She looked away suddenly to stare upon the plains once more. Embarrassment lapped her upon the realization of her actions. It was neither a crime nor a mere act of judgment that she had willingly taken it upon herself to heal him, but rather knowing that he was highly capable of performing it himself left her wondering why she had healed him in the first place.

She knew he was capable, yet she found herself somewhat entitled to take it upon herself to do it. She knew this, and so did he when she had turned away from him, but that left her wondering even further. Her actions were pointless, yet she did them anyway because she simply could. She _could_ do it, but she had… simply _wanted_ to do it. Nothing more was understandable other than that, and she knew it.

And so did he.

"I am glad you were by my side today, Eragon," she says, and she means it more than _he_ can possibly understand. When she looks to him again, he is staring at her. staring without kindness or recognition, but staring. Was that because he could? Or was it because he simply wanted to? She could care neither less because she is staring back when he responds gently in his own meaning of truth.

"As you by mine."

* * *

><p>"<em>Was it Faolin?" <em>he had asked, his voice quiet amid the nights gentle easements, waiting through the lasting silence she creates unwillingly despite the gentleness to his harmless question. It was undeniably inapt to leave his question unanswered, and yet she had found herself succumbing to it. She had been none other than relieved when she had answered him, telling him the one truth he seemed utterly in need of hearing despite the mask he used to conceal it, but still she confided in him, and was grateful for it. Although, he doesn't see this.

"_Yes," _she had said, answering him in no more than a silent gasp amongst her hushed response, leaving him to ponder the matter further before he asked the ultimate question she had been fearing beforehand.

He had asked if she loved him, and she had expected no more. At first she found herself pondering, figuring within her mind exactly how to respond to him without hurt or dismay, but instead found herself criticizing him. She had asked him herself if he wanted know based on moral concern, or if he had wanted know out of his own self-interest. She had regretted asking him instantly of course, but he neither flinched nor moved at her harshness, but simply starred.

"_No matter," _he had said, his voice gentle and quiet despite her daft inquiry, but she couldn't accept his formality, despite wishing to move on from the subject. She felt, once again, that she needed him to understand, although she couldn't say why, it was a simple longing that needed to be had. So she told him, simply as it was, that her profanity had been inexcusable and intolerable, but still he remained quiet, as if waiting for some unknown mental instability to give permission for him move, watching.

Love would always been undefined, still and agile despite what corners it may face. This is what she had told him, but differently to the thoughts and feelings within her now, masked and concealed beyond recognition. Of course, she had loved Faolin, but how would Eragon see that?

He was her companion, just as much as she was for him, but still, how would Eragon see that? When you are left wandering an immortal path through a land of humanistic appearances and lives, who was there to confide in? She would live forever until taken by blade, but others would eventually die of age and live to the void, and she would not. Faolin had been her one to confide in. He had been her companion and kinsmen, a close friend, and dearest brother. Of course she had loved him, but not for the reasons Eragon had thought.

He remains unmoving when she tells him this, and still he remains emotionless, although it is clear he is worried. For her? She could not know, but when she sees him now she sees only kindness in his eyes, the only small figment of emotion she is able to decipher, and it _is_ for her. She forgets often, that Eragon can be most wise, yet strangely unpredictable, just as she was. He will live on forever, moved upon a walking path of immortality where he will see the death of those he loves most, where he will bear witness and peril of sights that ignite the sense of longing that is seen so often in the immortal life, searching and waiting, watching from afar.

He knows her pain, yet does not speak of it, and this moves her because he cares for her, yet does not show it, and she knows why.

And when she tells him this, yet differently once more, she is unable to help it. She finds herself crying, but allows it to continue in front of him because she needs to, and he watches. Such memories torment her, yet she confides in them just as much as she had done with Faolin, but no longer.

He moves then, permitting himself to finally allow his emotions to come forth. Silently, almost intuitively, he reaches for her gently and places his hand over hers.

"The stories about the heroes of old never mention that this is the price you pay when you grapple with the monsters of the dark and the monsters of the mind," he says quietly, his hand tightening softly upon her own as his eyes find hers through the flicker of firelight cast amid the darkness. "Keep thinking about the gardens of Tialdarí Hall, and I'm sure you will be fine." His insinuation is so simple, so gentle and filled with such sympathy, yet it means so much more to her then anything he has ever spoken of previously. His understanding and efficiency allows her to feel hope, and perhaps even somewhat sways her into thinking that his empathy compares to that of Faolins.

Moments more the touch lasted, his hand never leaving nor persisting further, but simply remaining the comfort to her sorrows she needed to sooth her being. His stare upon her never moved or halted through the night of confiding. So much she had said to him, and yet she felt relieved for his understanding, so much that she could talk to him without letting the difficulties of the past ignite her in an emotionless cascade of unfeeling tirades that Eragon once thought her to be, but no more.

She looked down at his hand, wondering what had changed, but found nothing. Perhaps it had simply altered from one aspect to another, but she no longer felt him to be the boy she once knew on glades of Farthen Dûr, but the friend she had once lost to the passing void, her companion, just as _she_ was to him, and always.

But she could no longer permit his comfort. So when she nudged her arm ever so slightly, he knew as well as she did that moment was over, and he removed his hand from her own without question. She had not known at first, but she had never considered him her brother, and it wasn't because Faolin had already been the sibling she once needed, but somehow different. She felt he had always been something more, something much more profound and reeling then that of a brother, but she is left in the dark just as much as he is, left unknowing and in need of answers just as he is. But he will never know.

And that is why she no longer permits his touch.

* * *

><p>Amid the night she sits, through the longing comfort of her waking silence of the darkness, quiet as a lullaby in the tune of a soft, mellowed melody designed for only peace and deep amity. She sits alone tonight, as always, leaning against a small willow just outside the outskirts of the pavilions situated throughout plains among the Jiet River, content and soundless as she looks into the night and beyond its wondrous captivity. The time of night is unknown to her, but many of the Varden sleep apart from the lingering patrols scouring the land, and it is then she leaves for the comfort of her thoughts.<p>

It had been long ago, but still she could remember the first night of her journeys beyond Ellesméra and the Du Weldenvardens border, where she would simply gaze through the everlasting night like nothing else mattered, as if no one else existed but her. So long ago, yet she remembers it clearly as if it were a memory to be forever preserved like the lasting night, a lingering figment of reality to hold and treasure like no other.

It had been merely days since their awaiting return to the Varden, and finally upon their arrival, excitement had ensured for the safe return of their lost rider. Of course, she could be no more grateful. Eragon had returned unscathed and unharmed, albeit more physically then mentally, but it left her without apprehension for his own wellbeing. However, that didn't ease the fact that there were still inevitable misfortunes to be had once the fear disintegrated, as it were these days.

She knew just as well, nothing was ever permanent.

For a time people would rejoice, provoke themselves ignorantly into thinking that the terror had vanquished, but like a billowing crack of thunder, it would return just as menacing, and they would cower away just as they had previously. Her thoughts had often drifted instantaneously to these riddled outcomes. Were it always so in the silence of her haven, but that meant nothing until the time of its approach.

"_Our lives are but the reflections of the thoughts we think, Arya…" _her mother once said, so long ago upon a perch amongst the gardens of Ellesméra. Perhaps it was simply dull, or perhaps it was her own elusive ignorance, but at the time she'd never thought much about her mother's cunning words until now, waving it off as just another petty lesson to be learned in the house of Dröttningu, but now she understood the meaning to what her mother had once advised her on when she was but a child to tamper with.

As you think, you act, and when you act it forms the very persona you were meant to live. But how you live is the very choice you act upon, whether you think it or do it, the outcome is always the same no matter the thoughts that guide you. Perhaps her mother had been right…

Islanzadí chimed amidst her thoughts once more.

"_They identify what we not only do in life, but what we may need to survive it. They define us; mold us into the very being we were meant to perceive. Lose your thoughts, Arya, and you may just lose yourself…"_

* * *

><p>It was, just as she'd thought, undeniably unnerving. Alas, she could no longer bring herself to permit the distant yet faded bit of belief that allowed her the small fragment of hope to course through her, but only to find herself delving into a pool of acrid hostility and ignorance instead of ambient relief and harmony. It was futile and pointless to meaning as she found herself stepping a thin line between hope and despair, mirroring the very reflection she saw herself walking. But of course, that was to be expected. <em>Were it so unbelievably incoherent?<em>

A single horn reverberated amid the distance, reeling and somewhat tantalizing and yet bringing among it a path of chaos and anxiety. The mass hoard known only as the undermining arrival of Galbatorix's troops slowly began to unfold beyond the eye.

He had sent so few! So few and yet still strained upon a fickle hope that these so few men could possibly bring about their impending doom? It was so strange, but something else lingered within her that made her thoughts rapture abnormally, something profound and disturbing. She could not understand this foul impractical trickery Galbatorix perceived so easily, but later she would see, and later she would soon regret it. Something was out of place, and it would come to pass no matter the efforts to restrain it. Their blindness would be their downfall, and there stood the trick in Galbatorix's unveiling scheme.

They were blind.

"_Eragon!" _The voice filled the air like acrid smoke, weaving and tangling within the lyric strains of their minds like an infectious and incurable disease, prolonging the silent hush of apprehension. Arya felt the bitterness rise within her, her hand held unmoving upon her blade suddenly tensed firmly over its pommel. It had only been a matter of time, of course. Prediction was only ever a tool as long as it proved sufficient.

"_Eragon!" _he called again as if the first warning had simply faded into a figment of their imagination, his crimson beast circling above their ranks and angling closer toward them. "I see you there! Come fight me, Eragon!"

Her eyes fell to the ground slowly, a shadow lingering over the glades she stood upon. So, they had come for them, just as she'd thought. Amity could only last for so long, and this was simply irrefutable. Nothing, as it were, could possibly last forever. This was just a simple, unalterable fact that Arya knew all too well. Nothing was ever apparent, just imagery delved into a meaningless tirade. But would it ever hold purpose instead of tyranny? Her eyes delved toward Eragon suddenly, where he sat in silence unwavering upon Saphira, his expression unreadable as he himself looked toward the skies.

_Were it so indeed…_

Upon the embankment she stood, awaiting what only the Varden could perchance upon a faint, misguided hope that _this_ ploy set by the King could be dispatched easily enough to render Murtagh and Thorn useless, but within her a sinking feeling stood unmasked and untainted and she knew something was indeed amiss. Apart from the obvious, that is of Murtagh's unmatched scheme to capture Eragon, and these few men that accompanied him were nothing but a small device to keep the Varden at bay while he attempted this ludicrous plan, _something_ was wrong. But what? What cunning stability did Galbatorix and Murtagh perceive to make this plot so masked, so strange and so grotesque that no one could possibly intercept it? It didn't make any sense! She herself was beginning to feel none other than useless.

_Stop…_

Obvious reasons yet again. Murtagh had bested Eragon beforehand and captured him in enchantments far greater than his own, but freed him. Perhaps he had simply outwitted himself and felt pity, or maybe it was because of their past. Either way, nothing held for truth today. Them simply being here held proof of that, but would they show Eragon the same mercy today if such a fate stumbled upon him yet again? No, and he knew that. But this time it would be different, and this time they would be prepared, even for the abnormal.

This time, she and her kinsmen were here and they would help him. _She _would help him.

Her thoughts are decided before she knows her actions, and begins to make her way toward him suddenly as he readies himself for what may come, his stance upon Saphira composed and silent as she approaches him, and she is rendering herself as much as the others of the slow impending doom creeping upon them from amid the outskirts and onwards. She wouldn't allow such a petty thing to corrupt her thoughts like some. _She_ would be composed.

_Stop…_

He halts his movements suddenly; sensing her arrival almost instantly. His hand upon the buckle at his thigh halts as he slowly raises himself from his current position, watching her curiously as she stops before Saphira. Her eyes are firm when she looks into his own, looking up and standing just below his leg. It was only ever his eyes, she thought quietly to herself, that could betray his distant, yet vast stream of emotion, his masquerade of impassiveness, always somewhat hidden amid a darkness he creates willingly, but she sees clearly. She moved beyond it. She sees everything despite his extensive portrayal of another aspect of feeling, and she sees what she herself simply cannot deny to be another. He was afraid.

_Stop…_

Hesitation thwarted and forgotten, her eyes upon his own unmoving, she raises her hand and places it gently over his left leg and murmurs quietly, "Accept this from me, Shur'tugal." Allowing the energy to pool and surge through her contact, she passed it to him as she felt the uncomfortable stir wash into his own as he absorbed her energy easily into his leg and throughout his ligaments, becoming his own as soon as it left her body.

Looking down at her, he spoke softly in the ancient language, "Eka elrun ono."

Deciding already as she left her hand upon his leg, she joined him in the native tongue, speaking faintly as the uneasy feeling passed almost instantly, "Be careful, Eragon. I would not want to see you broken by Murtagh. I…"

_You will stop…_

As the words fumbled into oblivion within her lips, she paused without recognition; the ancient language pulled and lured her to speak what merely was, but instead halted into a faded blur upon her hushed voice. _You will stop now…_

Silently, she removes her hand from his leg and steps back without a word, and then retreats toward Blödhgram. His eyes were upon her back when she turned, she could feel them now as the question clearly loomed upon his brow, but she could do nothing, and she wouldn't. There was a battle afoot and he needed to stay focused upon the fight at hand, the one that had gradually circled closer toward them within their small exchange. The ground shook with Orrin's cavalry and their march toward the enemy, but she is not listening.

The elves sang almost poetically as Saphira suddenly launches herself into the air like a thundering catapult, hurdling toward skies as she beats her wings furiously, her anger and hostility apparent amid the putrid air, a viscous snarl barreling throughout her barbed teeth.

She watches quietly amid her own silence, feeling the uselessness of her being squander soundlessly within her compressed heart as she simply stood there amongst her kinsmen, always watching, waiting from afar…

_Were it so unbelievably… futile… _

She intertwines her mind like a vine through wood, engaging it easily with Eragons as she begins to feel the numerous elves perform the same enclosure within each and every strain of their thoughts as they became one and prepared for the oncoming barge known only as the insufferable Murtagh and Thorn, waiting upon the first blow that would soon commence.

In the distance, upon the faded orbit of the air, the gurgling laughter emanated throughout the land.

* * *

><p>"<em>Arya! What happened?" <em>He had asked, his voice but a perplexed strain of the knot waiting to be unmeshed. Finding herself alone amid the encumber of silence once again, she strays apart within the cloud cast night, hushed and silent upon the tone of the breeze mellowing throughout the darkness. Its quiet tonight, uniquely lapsed under a once longed comfort of lulled stillness, and yet comfortable yielded under a scarce misconception. Despite the masquerade set by the night, its gentle easements and nourishing calmness, she could feel nothing of its consolation.

Her eyes are impassive, hollow, as she walks quietly amongst the pavilions of tents, retreating to her own as the night grows late with weariness. She is like a spirit rendered within a blur, an enfeebled soul wandering upon a shadow, a silhouette amongst its most feeble darkness. Her lulled thoughts mimicked the lingering ploys of her weakened state; she could feel them as if they were a blade sheathed deeply within her flesh. The night had slowly crept further into abandonment by the time she enters her pavilion and seals it, disclosing her deliberation as well as her being.

But awhile ago the people of the Varden had been alight, perched and favored upon the unity of Roran and his beloved. Katrina. Their marriage had indeed relayed the joy she had hoped for, especially through the tyranny that had almost stalled it permanently. Indeed, had the Varden not successfully dismembered the inhuman and rather abnormal soldiers beforehand, they would not be wedded, and neither joy nor happiness could have been sought today. At least, for their happiness, she could find some peace.

She's silent though, forestalled upon the balled of death, and hindered by its everlasting cries. She remembered Eragon. She remembered his voice, his eyes, and how easy both gave away the smallest subtle emotion beyond the silhouette of his barriers. _The __price you pay when you grapple with the monsters of the dark… _The words he'd said leave a mark that cannot be remedied, and she feels them condemn her despite their harmfulness. They leave a mark. …_and the monsters of the mind… _and then they leave their burden**. **

And when she kneels in front of the basin, so slowly and yet so uncertainly, she feels tired, useless, and hopeless. She sighs into the water as she slowly releases her hair from its braid, her hand delicately pulling at the grime embedded into the strands, her muscles aching, her head throbbing. _…and I'm sure you will be fine…_

The water is cool over her skin, bitter, but she doesn't wince. She dips her head down, arches it, her hand running carefully over the curve of her neck as she stares into the basin, seeing herself through the subdued reflections in the water. She forgets that it's only herself, if only for a short moment. The eyes she sees are weary, old, and unrecognizable. It was hard to believe that they were her own.

Her face is quickly blotted by the blood that lapse off her hands as she slips them into the water, her eyes closed.

She cannot bear to look at them further.

* * *

><p>"Arya…" The Varden lady looked at her with a prolonged sense of tender kindness that seemingly excelled beyond her young years, her careful eyes dependent, searching. "Is it abrupt of me to ask…?"<p>

"Milady." However Nasuada's intentions were noble in her own way, she did not wish for her to continue, despite her assurance. "I can assure you that I am well." When her eyes fell upon her own, she cannot help but notice through her inquiring accusations that she knew, without a second doubt, she knew that she was lying. She herself could not deny it, even as she stood alone in the quarters of Nausadas pavilion.

"Forgive me," she says quietly, smiling. Arya knew it was forced. "I do not want you to assume that I would think you enfeeble. It's just… lately you seem… distracted, to say the least."

She doesn't speak, her body motionless, still. She knows that if she upholds the silence any longer, Nausada would assume just that, but she cannot answer. She doesn't know how to. It had been only a day since the incident of the bizarre soldiers who felt no pain, and she deliberated whether or not she could remember if she had been able to walk out of her own pavilion since then. She fails however, more so afraid to recall it then to remember it, but she doesn't show it.

"Listen, Arya," She is quickly pulled from her trance by Nausadas gentle voice, her face an unwavering mask once again. "I know that these times can be troubling, and I cannot presume to know what is best, but I implore you not only as your liege, but as your friend…" She looked at her, willing for her to listen, her tone persisting. "_Are_ _you_ well, Arya?"

She had become conscious to her stare, her quiet observations and her sensible reasoning, but Arya would not show her gratitude by any change of position, and so she shifts her eyes to the ground, unable to look at her further. Truly, she had been grateful, but it simply faded until a tinge of it was left to feel only slightly taken aback. As inhuman as it was, she could feel nothing but spoken words of friendship, and nothing but cautious amends that didn't need to be heard. She felt inclined to leave suddenly, to return to her pavilion or some other means of sanctuary, but she didn't feel the leisure to disappoint Nasuada so off-handily. No, she didn't deserve such cruelty, and so she stays, waiting, listening. She wasn't aware, however, that Nasuada had continued to speak…

"… and to assure these negotiations will resume without disruption," she continued, "I have sent Eragon to Farthen Dûr as an emissary to the Varden…"

Arya's head snapped up suddenly. Her thoughts decided well before her actions. She quickly interrupts her without heeding caution. "Pardon?"

Despite her lack of manner and decision, Nasuada held nothing against her as she resumed talking, her voice gentle, hesitant. "As I said… In a matter of urgent events, Eragon left for Farthen Dûr at dawn…"

"For what purpose?" she interrupted again, shock lidded upon her features.

Nasuada looked at her, her eyes questioning, silence lapping the lady's pavilion for an impending moment before she continued once again. "It is no hidden reality, Arya, that the dwarves are somewhat reluctant to side with our cause, and perhaps it is now safe to assume that without their full support, the Varden is at a loss." She sighed, her brow narrowing slightly. "And as I'm sure you are fully aware of, King Hrothgar adopted Eragon into the Dûgrimst Ingeitum, yes? With that in mind, his close friendship with Orik and his rightful kinship to the Dwarves enables him the opportunity to impose his status as leverage. The Dwarves are amidst deliberating the position of their new monarch and are taking into consideration all possible candidates. The process is moving accordingly, but in order to fulfill our motives against the Empire, we _need _their support. So, giving his legal representation to participate in these negotiations, I have sent Eragon in my stead to ensure that the dwarves elect a monarch willing enough to support the Varden."

She considered her words carefully, deliberating. Nasuada was not known to fall stead fast into such rash decisions, so why this sudden convoy of judgment? It didn't make sense. "Why was I not informed of this sooner, milady?"

"On the contrary," she said, "you've just been informed now, hence the reason why I asked for you in the first place. You must understand that I cannot abandon my duties here, and Eragon will be surely safe once he's arrived. I would not be so daft as to send him alone, I can assure you. And with Saphira here…"

"_Saphira_ is not with him?" she asked suddenly, although it was more a statement then a question, her voice skeptic. "And Eragon agreed to this?"

"He was not easily swayed into complying, if that's what you mean, but yes… he did, albeit a little disheartened and somewhat angered though." Nasuada paused for a moment, her eyes dependent and subdued by her youth. She seemed weighed by her thoughts, hindered, but she did little or nothing to show it. "The Varden needs to be perched upon Eragon's fortitude, Arya," she said quietly, "It is his valiancy that gives them hope. He's a beacon, Arya, for those who pity themselves against all impossibilities. If word of his departure somehow reached their ears then they'll falter. Not only that, if Galbotorix's spies discovered this, then Galbatorix himself will waste no time in rendering us useless. That is why so few, including yourself, know of this assignment. It is also why I asked for Saphira to stay, so that no one will assume his absence. And that is why I ask you, Arya, to act for him in his stead if the worst is to come during his absence. Will you accept this?"

Eragon had departed, Saphira had stayed, and she was left ill-informed until now. Certainly, she had no say in what Eragon and Saphira decided and therefore had no obligation to say otherwise, but did her action count for nothing? Of course, Nasuada spoke of his reluctance and his contempt for the situation. From what she gathered, he seemed all most unforgiving toward Nasuada, his liege. Had he wanted to oppose her rule and disobey her? It seemed obvious, but even she could not tell for sure, but given his apparent defiance, and if she were in his position, she would have done exactly that… oppose her. She was furious at Nasuada, but of course, once more… she had no say.

"Arya?"

If she declined, what of her then? Saphira would never vouch for some unknown stranger to act as Eragon. Her trust in others didn't come lightly, and Arya was sure that these drastic turn of events wavered Nasuadas fealty. Saphira would not be pleased, that she knew well.

"Arya… I know this may seem…"

"Yes." She said suddenly, interrupting once more.

"Excuse me?"

She sighed, her eyes meeting Nasuadas, her voice definite. "Yes…" she said again. "I will act in Eragon's stead."

For a long moment, the Varden lady looked at her, searching for some unknown conveyance of objection, anything that gave away even the slightest refuge of emotion regarding her sudden agreement, but instead found nothing. "Right then…" she said, "Then we have nothing more to discuss. Thank you, Arya… you are dismissed."

She bowed, her solemn eyes to the ground, and then turned to leave without another thought.

"Oh… and Arya?"

She stopped, silent. She feels burdened by the days growing commotion, but still she stops, waiting, forestalled upon her duty to simply listen, although uneager. Turning her head, she looks back, watching Nasuada within a manor almost considered cautious. "Yes, milady?"

"You never answered my question beforehand," she says quietly, her voice wisely lidded, hesitant once more before asking, "Are you… well?"

She doesn't answer at first, unable to process the sudden change of character. She cannot fathom why she is so reluctant to answer, her own sense of judgment wavering under Nasuadas quiet inquiry. But then, despite her own subtle refusal to express herself, did it really matter? Did it ever matter?

"Yes… milady," she says, her voice tainted with a false politeness that even she cannot stand to ignore. "I am well." She smiles suddenly, her face alight for a scarce second, but it's gone within another, and then she leaves.

* * *

><p>Darkness once again, the night staged upon its parade, reared into fulfillment. Her thoughts are calm, eased, but the feeling of apprehension remains. She cannot help but notice just how vivid the mind can be, even when all seems clear and coherent. She feels safe, however, suspended by the radiance foreshadowing the thicket as her eyes dance upon the sky in an unkept admiration. Lingering far too long in silence, leaning against a dead willow as she sat and pondered through stillness, there is nothing but the small, melodic breeze that passes her unmoving body, and that alone stalls her within refuge… for once.<p>

_Not even in silence…_ spoke a voice as vibrant as the bearer, bringing her from quietness, _does the soul remain unhindered._

Arya's eyes fell upon the dragon as soon as she came into view, her mighty silhouette veiling the night as she landed with a resounding thump. _I am not disturbing you? _She asks quietly, enfolding her wings within her crest and nestling herself carefully next to Arya, the steady rise and fall or her breathing resounding softly within the night, the gentle lyric strains of her consciousness intertwining with her own.

She smiles faintly, staring. _No… not at all._ She lifted her hand, and placed it tenderly upon her sapphire adorned leg and kneaded the scales softy. A tuned humming filling her ears. _How does the night greet you, Saphira?_

_Well, actually, despite these recent events… _There was a blatant tone lidded within her voice, her head inclining down to meet Arya's as she studied her for a moment, _although I cannot say the same for you, can I?_

She met her eyes, emerald and sapphire melding together. Something shifted within her, a depicted fragment falling limply to her words. There was no fooling in the eyes of a dragon. _No, _she replied kindly, murmuring. She knew no more needed to be said.

_Of course, it is to be expected. _Curious as well as confused, Arya waited for her to continue. _Nasuada's enactment of judgment is not at all what I had wished for._

Agreeing in a silent understanding, she removes her hand and places it over the pommel of her dagger. _You miss him then… Eragon. _It seemed pointless to ask, to even think of asking or bothering to consider it. She knew Saphira had not obliged with benevolence toward Nasuada's newfound assignment. It had been two days, almost, since his departure, and still she held herself together with such ease. She couldn't possibly begin to wonder what it felt like, to be split within the middle and having one stay whilst the other left. Such is the life of a rider and dragon, an unspeakable bond.

She snorts fondly, smoke kindling within her nostrils, a slight keen sense of love and humor mixed within the ink blue pools of her orbs. _Don't I always?_

Arya smiled again, wider and more pronounced. _No matter, _she says suddenly, _Nasuada is doing what she deems necessary. If she believes her emote gush of judgment is effective, then so be it._

There was silence, the rhythm of Saphira's steady breathing attuned with her strong heart. _Do you really think that, Arya? _She asks suddenly, her voice mellowed within the night.

Varying between beliefs and knowing was something Arya was all too familiar with. There was no denying that Nasuada's decision had angered Saphira, but was she truly doing what she deemed necessary? Of course, Eragon believed her plan would be just. Why else would he have agreed? _Eragon trusts her__…_she said softly, her eyes to the ground, _and so should we._

_Indeed. _Silence once more, rendered merely in their refusal to speak more. Arya's eyes leveled up towards the night again, searching for some unknown sanction, although she couldn't think why. Moments like these made her forget what really laid ahead, what lurked within realities unforgettable nature. This world seemed lidded with indifference's, so much that even in quietness it seemed oppressed. Not even in utter silence, when all seemed so still and so quiet, did the land feel protected.

_You care for him…_

Arya's eyes suddenly fell upon Saphira once more, looking up, her mouth parted slightly in a silent, unknowing gesture that held a definite questioning within it. She doesn't say anything at first, unable to, and withered in her own silence until she eventually asks skeptically, "What?"

_Don't you? _The dragon asked, her voice gentle and unwavering and still within the night. There was something behind her words, something else that didn't need to be said, a hushed enclosure of unspoken words, but were there nevertheless. They were only hidden. She felt a complicated edge settle over her suddenly through the braid of emotions lurching within her, like a simmering wellspring beneath her entombed heart, rupturing, beckoning her from within the darkness of her own enclosure. She felt powerless then, as though the darkness overlapping her through each individual feeling had an atmosphere and the air within it dampened and seethed to indicate the change of climate, her sudden change of feeling_…_

She was silent for moment, subdued on her own hesitance, before whispering a reclusive and a submissive, "Yes…"

_And you're frightened for him, are you not?_

She sighed, eyes slipping closed and nodding only once, quickly, almost reflectively. "Yes."

The dragon, forestalled silently on her last word, doesn't say anything. She simply watches her, looking through the night as she ably stares without diversion. Arya could feel her measuring stare as it remained perfectly fixated upon her soundless gaping, a surpassing moment lasting instances. She could feel her deep, gesturing gaze pierce the very fores of her perplexed mind, seeing her, watching her as if she were on a pedestal. She could feel every fracture of her being fall to the realization of her words, compelling her, compressing her into the very depths of their meaning.

Quietly she breathes in, feeling suddenly overwhelmed and completely alone, so much that it angered her. Everything seemed so depleted suddenly, compressed and impassively hollow, although, she hadn't the faintest idea why.

_Arya,_ she heard, looking now toward Saphira once more, finding herself, much to her dismay, her eyes beginning to brim silently with tears. There was a smile within the dragon's voice, comforting and extending to the depths of Arya's soul, enveloping her. Her body shifted carefully as the dragon laid her head upon the ground where Arya sat in the silence of her own apprehension, her eyes still and unmoving as she murmurs quietly, _you don't have to be afraid._

She could feel a tremor of reanimation suddenly converse within her, a disorienting feeling joining the crevasses of her withered soul together and stabilizing them as if the two separate unities were ready to combust into nothingness. Breathing in again, rallying herself, she asks, _How so?_

Her serene voice chimed like a whisper within her mind, hushed upon the tone of her quietness. _Because, _she says softly, _Apprehension for our feelings is not the fulfillment of what we've failed to notice, but the realization of how much we already have. _There was a glimmer within her eyes, a silent murmur of unspoken words, and then she continued, _Know that your feelings are mutual, Arya, but understand now that you are not alone. In time, you will see, and so will he__…__ and then you will be astute enough to realize just how fortunate you are__…_


	2. Echelon

**_For those who've already read this then, please, excuse me for the trouble. I've merely cut the first chapter in half. Twas just a tad too long. Sorry for any inconvenience. _****  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong><span>Sweet Silent Thought<span>  
>PART TWO<br>Echelon  
><strong>

"Blödhgram! By my feet, stay with me!" Her short, whispered murmurs are hushed within the growing enclosure of night, strained and tempered as she presses herself against the crevasse of a wall, alert and silent as the platoon of armed men advanced into the flurry of battle without noticing either her or Blödhgram in their pursuit. They remained silent, hidden in shadow, watching until the last of the guard vanished and withered into the night. She breathes a sigh of relief, collecting herself as she assessed their current surroundings within cities blockade, her hand held definite over the pommel of her sword. A hand over her shoulder suddenly brought her forth from her deliberation.

"Milady, Arya," he whispers, his eyes looking through a small, reflective stimulus before falling silently upon her own, questioning. "We cannot delay any longer. If these men see us we will surely falter under their numbers. We must find the gateway before they glimpse our whereabouts."

"I fear that our position has already been perceived, Blödhgram. Why they haven't acted, I haven't the faintest clue. But you are right, we must hurry." Amid the nights unwavering conflict, apprehension grasped her entirely. Fienster's siege was undeniably faltering upon the Varden's inability to get beyond the gates, and the reality of this fact wasn't something Nasuada had taken lightly. She seemed relentless in her pursuit, defiant until the unseeing notion of her eyes suddenly glazed upon the falling numbers of their rallying platoon's. Upon this realization, she'd asked for Arya's manor of infiltration and Blödhgram had refused to allow her to go alone. It was the only way, she deemed, to get within the walls.

And so, upon her acceptance, here they were. Although, despite their intentions, their attempts at getting at the wall had proven futile at best. They were trapped.

"Princess, we have to move!" He whispered fearfully, his voice laced with worry. "They're coming this way!"

She nodded once, quickly, sword at the ready and mind ill at ease by his tension. They needed to move, less they be driven into an ambush and time was surely against them. She looked to Blödhgram, her eyes searching and forestalled silently by his hesitance. He nodded, his animalistic features tainted by uncertainty, but it was soon diminished behind a barrier of impassiveness.

They moved quietly, attuned to the darkness. Blödhgram went before her, alert for anything abnormal, and like a lithe cat, he climbed onto a wooden panel embedded into the wall and held out his hand for her. She jumped, sprightly, catching his hand and using it to pull herself up effortlessly beside him. They pressed themselves quickly to the wall, falling into the shadows, and watched as the flurry of armored men tailing them beforehand ran toward the blockade below them. They were quiet, listening carefully, and when they passed, they moved.

"The gate is ahead," he whispered, his body posed before her in a protective gesture. The act was unnecessary, of course, but she wasn't about to argue. Not now and certainly not with him.

"The lever is our priority."

"Soldiers surround the enclosure, milady. We'll have to reveal ourselves."

She sighed dejectedly, looking. "Then so be it."

They ran together, silent as the night bid them, leaping to and from the panels levying the wall. Before the main entryway, however, they were soon met with a foreboding sight. Soldiers littered the square, five by five and at the ready. Some rallied the wall above them, shooting and bellowing out scathing remarks toward the Varden as they pressed forward. Smoke cascaded the night, creating an eerie feeling of death and destruction. She was unsure of the numbers exactly, but her eyes glimpsed enough to cause a great deal of panic within her. There were far too many.

"We cannot hope to survive this, Arya." Blödhgram spoke timidly from beside her, and she was shocked to hear her name spoken with such conviction.

"Nevertheless…" she says, her eyes upon the square, cautiously resilient. "We have our orders, and we cannot abandon them."

"Even if they meant your life?" he spoke harshly, willing for her to listen.

She ignored his hostility. "Leave if you will, but I'm staying. I do not wish for you to follow me, Blödhgram."

"You forget," he says, and she was again shocked, albeit oddly, to hear a faint smile through the strong inlet of his voice. "That I too have my orders, milady. You cannot think to toss me away so easily. It would be unwise."

She turns suddenly, looking now toward Blödhgram. She was silent for a moment, momentarily forgetting her surroundings, and then she too, despite her own sensibility, smiled. "And I wouldn't dare think of it."

He bowed, satisfied. "You're mother would greatly disapprove of this, you know. She'd surely have my head were it not so difficult to attain."

"Well then, if we were to survive…" she says quietly, unsheathing her sword and holding it defiantly before her, ready, "Then we best keep ourselves from revealing anything." She thinks for a moment, sighing to herself suddenly, straying. Her mind was elsewhere, feigning rationality through a place masked from reality… and she cannot help it. She feels alight suddenly, perched through hope, hanging within a balanced feeling of sudden anticipation. Again, she smiles, faintly and yet more to herself, remembering now… _Grapple with the monsters of the dark_…

"And I'm sure you will be fine," she whispers, content and completely ambient. Beside her, she hears Blödhgram unsheathe his sword.

"As you will."

She nods, keen and definite. _You will be fine…_

They wait for a moment, silently prolonged by their surroundings, watching. She can feel her heart thud within each rhythmic pulsation of life, feathering upon a stupor of both strange and immobile feelings welling within her. Her grip is fierce, eyes focused and ears perched upon every passing sound. _And I'm sure, Arya_… _you will be fine._ She breathes in and leaps, abruptly and swiftly, Blödhgram quickly following after, and they engage.

Yells bellowed throughout the compound, signalling their awareness and sudden trepidation. Swords were brought forth, silver and shadow veiling throughout the night accompanied by the foreboding glow of firelight. She lifted her arm, bringing the pommel down and bathing her sword into the flesh of an unfortunate soldier, twisting and turning through a montage of agile moves and techniques. The refinement of her grace was diminishing to the eyes of those daft enough to withstand it. She was like an illusion, an apparition conceived from a haunting dance, weaving and thronging through the veils of men standing before her. She could hear Blödhgram somewhere in the square, his recurring voice resounding throughout their flurry, moving and lingering in one place and then the other, quick and effortless.

There were cries, lasting and gauging to the ear, but she cannot think to notice. She's running toward the plinth, delving her blade upon metal and flesh as she ran quickly toward the base of the lever where it was encumbered by men, hedged and guarded by the towers looming by the gates. She sees an archer staged by the surbase of the platform taking aim, raising his arm, his eyes exact, watching carefully. She acts without approximation, still running and still calculating. And like the agile creature she was, she acted within a fickle blur, throwing her blade suddenly and leaving it to gouge into the chest of the archer, still running, still acting. It was a fleeting image, watching the poor man cry into the night, tumble upon the wood and fall, without anything further, to plummet on the ground. She's dispensed with it.

Hastily, leaping three by three over the stairs, dodging blows here and there, she unfastens her bow and swings it effectively into the head of a soldier before he notes her awareness, turning and swaying through the darkness like a chimera. She's forestalled suddenly, reprehensibly as she stumbles slightly, when she feels a blade scathe her arm suddenly, exclaiming heatedly and fusing her anger into her blow. She kicked the fool out from under his feet, ignoring his rendered pleas and bringing her bow down and hard over his head, silencing him.

She ignored the pain hindering her arm, muttering almost soundlessly into the dark as the Ancient Language hollered from her mouth and flashes of luminescence bathed in green scorched the night. Shouts were rendered within their silencing death, cries were mingled in the growing obliteration drudging from her lips as she muttered, shouted, and cried words of the binding language as she conjured magic from her hand, creating her path ahead and spying her target, the lever to the gateway.

Her energy was plummeting, but barely withered in its continuum. She swung her bow around, turning around with ease and walloping her opponent, kicking and hitting anyone that stood before her, be it her bow or fist, either one countered as she leapt onto the podium, reaching back and grasping an arrow from her quill. She knocked them one by one, shooting, striking, never missing, unremitting in all her targets. She yielded to her power, allowing the energy and adrenalin to pool and wash within her, expanding and bellowing through her relentless attacks. She jumped mid air and kicked a soldier as he cried hopelessly without a break of measure, twisting her bow and beating it into another as he rushed toward her, falling limply to the ground. She stood, tresses of ebony hair sinuous throughout the darkness, knocking an arrow and releasing it, again and again and again.

"Blast you and your wretched kind! _Curse you!"_ She heard the obscured voice muffled within the dark, brute and feeble as she landed an arrow into his chest, silencing his hounding remarks. She'd heard the phrase far too many times in her life now. No more, at least, no longer from him.

Her eyes were passive as she scanned the compound. She saw Blödhgram from a distance, running toward her through a fixation of complicated maneuvers strutted from his blade, bearing his animalistic teeth to all who noted his brusqueness. His grave eyes found hers through the throng of surrounding soldiers bearing down on their position, nodding quickly before leaping onto the plinth before her, striking and swinging at all who opposed him. Arya's heart gave way, thudding and pulsing, beating within each strain of breath she took. They were two against many, and they were faltering beneath their numbers. More men were piling through the compound, shouting and signaling orders for their death, overwhelming them. She thought, abruptly, drudging through a sudden comprehension, that they would surely die here tonight. There were too many. They'd never make it… she brings her bow down again, turning, whirling around, acute to her attacks. She breathes in, exhaling.

An unknown voice shouts from afar, "Get them!" and men from below suddenly trudge onto the plinth, running directly toward her. She knows the chances are feeble, here and now, she cannot comprehend the circumstances surrounding her, but she is far from attuned now, forgetting, losing herself suddenly, her mind adrift within an unknown mania as something overtook her mind once more…

She turned, running, looking into the night as her eyes glazed over in a sudden recollection, falling astray within her thoughts once more … _Keep thinking of the gardens of Tialdarí Hall… _she breathes in, her eyes still to the night, forgetting… _and I'm sure you will be fine… _and now, she was surrounded.

She heard Blödhgram's shaken voice cry out, "No, Arya!" There were yells, distant and faded, tainting and yet strangely fickle through the blur of her trance. The lever was at arm's length now, and still she looks up, still she searches, feigning thought and reason.

"Arya!"

There was a noise, vivid yet tantalizing, stilling everything and everyone in their course. Smoke and ash littered the night's enclosure, diminishing her sight from straying into the open. She feels the heat molding her skin, the acrid air jarring her mentality. There's a wind, suddenly, that fumbles over her being and lulls the cries from draping her ears, prolonging the shadows and drawing the attention of unseeing eyes to view. She waits, impending, searching for something unknown to her stability, eyes afar, and wondering.

And then it's heard, clear as the night permits it, hounding and defiant into the lasting call emitting from within sky, a colossal roar plunging into the darkness.

Cheers from outside the walls brought her forth, staging her awareness to reality. The Varden's hopeful cries pierced the night from the gateway beneath them, hounding, open to elation. She feels it course within her, feeling the pull and leer of its progression into her being, declining into its ambience. The lasting roar prolonged, wreathing into the ears of the men around her. Some looked into the night, others covered their ears, and few even cowered and ran, but she doesn't, she's still looking. The wind picked up, hollowing within each pulsing thump and beat, and then a thundering war cry resounded through the smoke… and then she smiles.

"_Eragon…" _

Through smoke and ash, moonlight and shadow, as blue as the vivid night sky founded through clouds and stars, a massive silhouette plunged forward and out into the confrontation raging tirelessly below it, rapidly approaching through all haste and speed it omitted. The sound of beating wings within each strong, pulsing notion bestowed a calmness unlike anything she'd felt beforehand, compelling her and luring her into amenity… and she had never felt so relieved until now.

Vast torrents of fire suddenly bellowed within the skies, intertwining and undying as though conceived within a pictorial enactment of a realistic nightmare. The men surrounding her, ominous and oblivious to her existence beside them, looked utterly demoralized as the vast realization of their predicament suddenly caught afoot in their minds. They looked uncertain, unhinged and completely dismayed at the sight occurring before them… the dragon and rider currently spiraling toward them from within the fire-lit darkness.

"Arya!" she turned, bow upturned and ready to strike at the call of her name, but haltered. Blödhgram had made it onto the podium and was standing before her, his face contorted in a great deal of many feeble emotions, but were soon diminished before she could note them. One thing she saw, however, timid and apprehensive as they looked at the men standing near them, was his eyes. The soldiers were still looking into the night, terrified and unawares, but Blödhgram's apprehension solemnly remained. "The lever," he said, whispering quickly, "We must pull it, now!"

At that moment, straying remotely toward diminutive feelings and fickle uncertainty, did the soldiers encumbering the podium finally, unfortunately, take note of their existence. A look in their eyes told her they were hopeless, damned, and then suddenly yells of rage resonated once again and Arya and Blödhgram were consumed in a flurry of warfare once more.

His voice cried out for her, "Move!" and when she did, resilient and lucid within the growing displacement around her, she turned suddenly and lifted the sole of her boot and kicked the lever with a resounding _thwack! _And it buckled under the weight. It fell, hard, the chains of the cylinder spinning and collapsing as the gates opened, slowly, but budged nevertheless due to the lost support. Somewhere, within the eve of her hearing, she could hear cheers bellow from the distance.

"Arya!"

And then they ran, away, away from the lever, away from the men, forward into the compound. There were too many, but Arya's fierce blows struck all and more, knocking arrows and swinging her bow until it battered a man back or down onto the ground. She was separated from Blödhgram, running, feeling suddenly overwhelmed despite the serene sentiment of feeling looming within her beforehand, but no more. Despite this, however, the loss of feeling, the compelling sentiment lurching away, she'd done her job. The gate was open.

She dropped, curling lithely over the ground and evading spears, bow in one hand and the other deliberately outstretched, and as fast as she plummeted, she quickly snatched up a sword littered over the ground and stood. She spun, arms outstretched and lively, and attacked. One by one, as though perched through a sudden agility unknown to others, she parried blows and swung her weapons into their chest, head or hips. She heard the cries, she heard the pleas, but nothing infiltrated her thoughts as she continued to gouge men here and there, kicking and deflecting anything that came within her range. She could feel the heat underlying her body, the sweat trickle over her forehead, but still she moved, still she fought.

She felt a blade over her thigh suddenly and she cried out into the night. She turned, sword ripping through the air, and struck a man through the waist. Her bow had been lost somewhere within the throng of bodies littering the area, but she could neither see it or care as she leapt quickly toward where she hoped Blödhgram would be, cutting her way through a foreboding mist of blood…

Blödhgram grabbed her arm, their backs pressed defensively together as they parried oncoming blows. "There are too many!" He rasped heatedly by her side, quickly slashing at anyone who hurried toward them. "We cannot defeat all of them!"

"Then we must try, lest we be killed!"

His voice murmured dejectedly, resigned to their fates. "I fear it already, milady…"

It was then, as though subdued and waiting beyond a waking vision, a massive burst of fire immersed the skies once again, stunning and completely abrupt, and then suddenly another tremendous roar resonated through the darkness. Arya looked only once, stupefied by the reality, and then looked to the present once again.

She was quick to take advantage of the soldier's diversion as they looked to the skies, asserting her weapon forward and into their flesh, spinning, grasping Blödhgram's forearm in her wake and pulling him, and they ran. Her mind had been gravely compelled into a hopelessness unfamiliar to anything felt beforehand, but now she feels alight, perched, and she found herself once more succumbing to relief.

As they ran, Blödhgram shouted behind her, "Look to the skies, Arya!" and she did. Tumbling through speeds unmatched, delving through both fire and shadow, a pinnacle of unrivaled magnitude and enormity plunging into the masses scattered below them, Eragon and Saphira suddenly materialized out from within the smoke. A peculiar sensation brimmed into the forefront of her being, surging forthwith and throughout every lyric pore restrained within her. Rendered within a blur, veiled under obscurity, she summoned every able will within her to move forward, forward into the compound, into the open where they'd least be killed.

An upsurge of wind suddenly hollered them from behind, strong, abrupt and extremely familiar. Arya's lucid eyes cast upward again, senses pervasive and rearing through emotion as she watched the silhouette of Saphira emerge into the firelight, and the notable, longed-for sound of wings beating from above greeted her conjecture like no other.

The dragon's enamored guise of armor glistened under the contorted semblance of both moonlight and shadow, her deep and profound color of cerulean blue shining resplendently within dappled silver cast over the scales. Subtly, and yet all the more perilously, Saphira landed over the cobbled-stone square with her dauntless wings still outstretched and reared defensively over the yard, crushing numerous soldiers in her wake and liberating another ominous roar into the night as both Blödhgram and Arya ran head-on to meet her. Men wept and fled, some were even bold enough to challenge the dragon as she reared herself on her hind legs and gouged men here and there, whipping her tail and shedding it dangerously over the dirt. A terrifying sight, to be sure, one too remitting and irrevocably threatening to any gaping opponent, but not her.

A deep and subdued sentiment of elation loped within her, her pace slowing gradually as five men rushed toward her with their swords upturned before her. She parried one blow, and then another, spinning adeptly on her heel and raising her fist. She felt the jaw and the disdain feeling of its collision over her knuckles as she struck a man over the face, lifting her sword quickly and lacerating another man's neck. Blödhgram was beside her, livid and just as diverse in his movements. She heard him snarl as he killed another, callous and inhumane, disposing of another with a cold swing of his blade. She stepped to the side, lifting her knee and knocking the fickle breath out the remaining soldier's abdomen, and he fell, hounding and walloping through his own demise, but he is quickly silenced by her own blade. She breathes in dolefully, purging her sympathy with remorse and strengthening her resolve as she quickly turned to Blödhgram, eyes veiled in some unknown torment as she wipes the blood from her face, her breaths shallow, wavering.

"Arya?" The concern dampened in his voice comforted her somewhat, but only so little by the measure of her distress. The few remaining men littered within the area scattered and fled, perhaps to further strengthen their platoons elsewhere, it was difficult to interpret, her mind could only speculate just as much. Movement caught the edge of her sight suddenly.

The shadow upon Saphira shifted slightly, not too much, but enough nevertheless to catch her eye. They moved slowly, as though feathered through uncertainty, balanced and resolute through their tentative actions, and then casually pulled loose from the saddle and leapt to the ground, sinking sturdily to the ground by the knee and then standing immediately. She stepped forward. "Eragon."

He gave a curt nod, eyes cast under shadow by the weight of his helm and asking sympathetically, "Are you hurt?"

She doesn't look at her arm, or her leg for that matter, but says nothing. Instead, she merely shakes her head in a silent, deliberate 'no,' and discourages the dull ache emanating over her body. All was, be it now or soon, all was in fact… well. Her eyes quickly fled to Saphira's, listlessly noting already that the dragon had been watching her. Yes, now, all was well.

_And I'm sure you'll be fine…_

* * *

><p>There was a grievance held within the Lady's voice as she muttered inconspicuously into the dark, "What is wrong with him?"<p>

Arya kneeled over Eragon as he lay unconscious over the cold floor of Fienster's keep, face distorted painfully and brow inclined in the most unusual manor. "I haven't any idea." Concern etched her angular features. Not long ago they'd infiltrated the main vestibule of Lady Lorena's keep without delay. To her far right, near the northern wall by the balcony, Saphira lay hindered also by the unexplained occurrence rummaging their mentality, and she hadn't the faintest idea what to do. She looked ahead of her, stricken with apprehension and hesitancy, as she watched the three hooded figures mutter incoherent words of the ancient language in a versed semblance. The man scrambling helplessly at their feet, clutching his chest and pulling at his knees to no avail, only wallowed in wordless whispers too discreet for the ear.

She looked down once more, averting her attention. "Eragon…" she muttered quickly, strained and inapt through the inlet of her soft voice. The nameless man writhing continuously over the ground snarled abnormally. Arya looked up tersely, her hand tensing cautiously over the pommel of her sword. She grasped Eragon's arm, shaking him stiffly in her fruitless attempts to wake him, but he simply fell and wavered limply under her stern touch. "Get up. Get up now…"

Lady Lorena spoke again, "We have little time, elf. I fear for my subjects. If we were to leave now then…"

"We're not leaving." She interjected severely, looking again toward Saphira as her trepidation became more apparent by the waking minute of her anxiety. Eragon laid motionless, still and unbridled by reality, stooped within some unknown mania delved by whatever link he and Oromis shared. She knew only so much, so little, so few facts. Eragon hadn't been the most informative of this strange predicament, but persistence for the situation would've been foremost unwise given their whereabouts, and so she left it. But he lays now, still, harbored by something unfamiliar to her knowledge, and she could do nothing.

And as though waiting, forestalled by her unease and subdued under clarity, his eyelids carefully slipped open. Aided by disorientation, he was distraught and completely fatigued. Strange. She sighed willfully nevertheless, relief subtly coursing within her. To her right, she heard Saphira stir upon her riders wake.

There was another growl, menacing and all the more wretched as the hooded figures swayed and withered under their lingering expulsion. She grasped Eragon's forearm, still close to his body and moving to pull him up. He wavered somewhat as she moved to steady him, but the foreboding pool of strange air simmering around them feathered their thoughts continuously, and the darkness around them suddenly grew thick with gloom and despair.

The spellcasters muttered, resolves regained and intuitions flaunted, the need to act became quickly evident as Eragon straightened and stood purposefully at length toward the figures. He looked at her, once, a fleeting glance hammered into the darkness, and then moved to strike, and she followed after him.

* * *

><p>She lies on the floor now, still, straying dangerously between the vast remnants of her plummeting consciousness and gasping helplessly. Eragon lay beside her, unconscious once more, barbed within the mania of his strange link, contorted and labored through each lasting moment. He wouldn't wake, he never answered her, and he was shaking. She reached for him, desperate to try and revive him, breathing heavily, frantic in her desolation, but was soon pulled back.<p>

A sick twang of shock resounded throughout her as she felt a hideous grip form over her neck, constricting and completely disorientating. Before her mind could comprehend the sudden realization, she felt the little air within her quickly disperse from her feeble lungs as the hand hauled her into the air, and held her there. Pain, agony, misery, that's all there ever was. Deep, piercing, relayed jolts of unbearable pain igniting every able limb and small wound over her body.

She clawed at the hand, struggling helplessly against the strangulation, but the voice, already blurred through her stupefaction, immersed her ears like poison. "We see everything!" She kicked, cried out, but the hand closed in over her neck. Her eyes watered repressively. "We hear everything! The light, the darkness, the rotting, stale beings of this devoided world! What light we see, what life we see! It will be ours! All of it! And you will fall by the pitiless depths of our calamity!"

Breathing became difficult. Jarred and strained under the unremitting hand of its processor, she tried to breathe, tried to think, feel and see, but all ends seemed futile. The tight hold over her, abnormal and merciless, tightening within each desperate intake of air she seized. Everything stilled, everything weakened, and she suddenly felt hollow and incapable of anything.

"Such light we see!" It rasped pointedly, "You hold so much! Restrained, oh yes, restrained, _hidden it is_, but we see it clearly, and it will be ours! _You will be ours!_ Our name is Varaug. Fear us!" With an able submission of energy already splintered through her exertion, Arya struck the shades elbow with the palm of her hand, hearing a break somewhere through the fog of tainted haziness, feeling the restraint falter slightly, momentarily, but not long enough. Fingers pummeled into her neck, her head throbbing and rupturing under the hold, resigned now, accepting. She knew the fight had ceased. Useless, pitiable, and hopeless, she succumbed to her fate. Her mouth opened slightly for the faintest of air, but it was never given. Her body ruptured violently.

"You shall die…" she heard feebly, dim now, distant. "You shall all die…" everything else, she thought, was simply lost.

And then she grabbed his wrist at one last attempt, closing her fist and breaking whatever her hand sought to wreck. She heard the lunacy within the rage, heard the tiring breaths of… _someone_… aimlessly fighting within the Shades mental capacity. She heard the sound of her own voice as she fell limply to the ground. She didn't linger. No sooner than she hit the floor the Shade was upon her, bellowing ceaseless remarks within a language she couldn't fathom beyond her coherence. She coughed, breathed hard, long and rough intakes, strengthening her vitality before commencing her sight to adjust. She crawled over the floor, evading the Shades attacks as he came to and forthwith, drawing nearer and nearer before crying out again suddenly. She looked up.

It was clutching its head, as though it was in pain. Her weary eyes sought sanctuary, reason perhaps, until they ultimately landed on the wavering form of Eragon. He was on the ground, kneeling over his hands, drawing breath and looking distraughtly at the Shade, fighting, attacking its mind… for her. She moved to get her sword, crawling feebly toward the pommel.

And then the Shade launched itself toward her. Unstable, compromised by Eragons relentless attacks over it, it fell on her as she moved to get up. She cried out, kicking and gouging blows at the Shade, competing for the sword as it struck her over the head. And then it drove back suddenly, reluctantly, kneeling contemptuously as it went limp, clutching its head once more as its maroon eyes glazed over dangerously. And then she heard Eragon, his voice bickered and weak, reeling her into reality as she took hold of the sword and stood audaciously.

"Get him!" Surging forthwith, a billowing cascade of ebony hair feathering through the darkness, she reared herself forward and pierced the Shade through its damned heart.

She fell, weak and tired, she fell hard and warily, sword wailing over the ground as her grip loosened. There was a light, a luminescent shade of red and white, hot and lucid under the skin of the nameless man, the dying Shade. Crying out, a fissure of distilled cadence pooled over the Shade and erupted, coursing and drilled through the night, and then the ignition of fire bellowed under the hollowed pressure. He split; he tore, until nothing remained. It was gone, the Shade was dead. Varaug was nowhere, nothing, anymore.

Slow now; her breaths are slow, stalled somewhat, but easing. She feels at peace suddenly, a warm sentiment, different and strange under the waking awareness of her thoughts. Arya blinks vapidly several times, swallowing, her throat raw with brisk air, swaying suddenly, her body limp, taut. She cannot move, she cannot speak. Her eyes are feathered weakly within a hazy blur before she feels the floor beneath her compress to the steady movements of someone slowly walking toward her. She leans frailly against a chair, stooped, her hand massaging her neck, when she sees him.

They don't speak at first, for she cannot. But he heals her. His hand gently encompasses her own as he murmurs the words carefully, weakly. The peculiar sensation brimmed beneath her skin, enveloping her, becoming her. It seemed awful discourteous not to accept it, wrong even, and completely stark. For the opportunity, however, given her state, she welcomes it. He asks her if it feels 'better,' and she is too elated to comply differently. She tells him yes, it is 'better,' and then she smiles. She allows a smile, a small, restricting smile through the panels of her hindered mindset, willing to favor it… for him.

But then he regrettably, dejectedly, tells her why he kept falling unconscious. And she cannot help it; she cannot help it at all.

* * *

><p>What is it, perhaps? Alone. To be alone. The word itself, simple and yet all the more convoluted in depth, seemed to beggar beyond description. What did it insinuate?<p>

At the horizon, beyond the colorless nadir of the mountains, the blood-dewdrop sun of the late afternoon pressed onwards over the serrated foothills, swelled, translucent, and cascading red and orange across the northern heavens. It was beautiful, a true tribute to the forlorn land, but ultimately flawed through every individual aspect of its envious enactment. There was no wind, no waking aura of fresh air to be had, no splendor to be met upon the knoll. It was simply… adrift, discarded perhaps, only moving unto the night, a natural delicacy of nature's refinement. But still, there was nothing to do, nothing to cherish, nothing to keep and adore through every lingering outlook of its progression.

And so she does nothing but look, listening for every feeble sound and reared by a fickle notion… until Arya bows her head, bit by bit, and allows the tears of her grief to somberly fall without heeding caution to its consequence. And that is where she stays.

The persisting silence of her anxiety crept over her like a wordless encumber of regret. Regret for her inability to control herself, her anger, her grief, her mounting weakness for this uncanny, new adoration she _shouldn't feel_. Regret for the times spent and mislaid in solitude, unable to recall them in both person and memory. Regret for everything and anything leading astray into the unknown, herself and others, falling somewhere inapt and too surreal to possibly distinguish… and the regret… the regret for the ones lost, for the fallen of today, and for the ones held dear to her inert heart. They were gone… perished and fallen, lifeless as the budding winds of yesterday. Consumed in death, passed through a listless void, Oromis now resides. And Glaedr… a reclusive whimper under the consternation of her tears… Glaedr was _alone_.

And she cannot help it; she cannot help it all. Sitting now, leaning despondently against a fallen willow over the secluded knoll, her head is bowed and her hands are knitted tightly through her hair, she allows her emotions, unkept and poignant under the heat of sorrow, she allows them to consume her, finally and succumbingly. They fall without trepidation, they fall without a will. Dominating, unmatched, and unbearably disheartening, they fall without conjecture. And she cannot… cannot help it.

Alone. To be completely alone. There were no words.

* * *

><p>"We stay, for now." Nasuada's pronounced stance relayed the image of defined headship and capability as she stood before the peers of the council seated before her, but beyond the layers of obedience, tolerance, and precision, Arya knew she was weary. "The Empire is fully aware of our motives now," she continued sternly, eyes afoot toward the small, nestled audience of the main vestibule of Fienster's keep, "And I fully intend for them to perceive our instigation. The reduction of Fienster will be our warning to the Empire. The Varden is afoot, here and now. And in the mean time, as we replenish our strengths, we shall remain here. Lady Lorena has expressed her concern for her subjects, and I have taken into consideration her tie to the Empire. As a ploy, we shall feign her capture. Her oath to Galbatorix is indeed intricate to our cause, but to avoid unnecessary conflicts, Lady Lorena will simply remain in our stead, and in return, she will offer us resources and provisions, anything that the Varden can procure. Here, we remain, afoot and a pinnacle of reprisal… for now."<p>

Subtly behind Nasuada, to her left, Arya stood passively, taut and silent as the hour prolonged, watching without an able measure of endurance to levy her will. To her right, Eragon stood, still and subdued upon the indecisive murmurs of the people around them, and there, like the poised disposition of his temperament, he waited silently.

As the ruling body conversed ever more deliberately, Arya's eyes timidly fell upon him, somber and yet completely resilient to the adamant voices relaying through the keep, watching him, considering him from afar. They hadn't spoken much since the siege, little or more then fickle whispers over the days of its passing, but it was to be expected, more or less. She knew he'd been dealt a vast misfortune upon his stability, but then, of course, so had she.

The death of Oromis and the segregation of Glaedr's Eldunari had, perhaps, become no more than an unspeakable notion relayed between those who knew the calamity, and to those who simply had no suspicion whatsoever, no inkling or familiarity of their existence. To define the causality of these events was, in itself, unspeakable. She herself could do no more than endure. She could only assume Eragon was enduring in his own manor of grief, lest he be sane enough to show it. Looking at him now, however, he showed little sign of his anguish, but then again, so did she.

There was some manner to rejoice, however, for Eragon was the son of Brom, not Morzan.

"How are we to be sure that Lady Lorena will deal in kind?" A voice rose amongst the others, a haughty looking man with a brown mane and shoulder-length tresses. His voice was grave and inert, pulling her back from her deliberation. He continued sternly, "How are we to be sure she'll resign her measures to us and not to Galbatorix? She has sworn allegiance to him, and therefore _cannot _be trusted! It would be daft to think otherwise, Milady. A prosecution _must _be detained, for her and her followers!"

"Lady Lorena is no more a threat then the arbitrating voices of this council," Eragon's own voice, a slight pervasive tone within the inlet of his words, formidable and unyielding. The room, alight and afoul with voices but a moment ago, suddenly ceased all diversion. Silence followed in his wake. "And for you doubt that…" he continued, "would be most certainly unwise. Would you presume to know the capacity of her virtue above your own, sir?"

"No…"

"Well then you have no say!" Arya watched, a sudden perplexity rising within her, as Eragons eyes glazed over decisively within a conduct uncanny to anything she'd noted beforehand. Still, as the budding voices of the room yielded under his authority, as did her own as she looked at him severely from the corner of her eye. "Tell me, sir," he said suddenly, "What is your name?"

The man, ever wistful under Eragon's scrutiny, paused hesitantly before answering reclusively, "Vicente Del'qu."

"Vicente…" it seemed as though the name held a bitter taste over his tongue, "Answer me this: Would you presume to know the trepidation of individuals even if they hid it beneath their guises? Answer me."

"No."

A smile, mirthless and somewhat keen. Arya was horrified by the act. "No, of course you wouldn't. Not even I can accomplish such a feat. But here you sit, unchallenged and pretentious under your own folly, and you presume to know a guilty mind when you see fit to guild one."

"If I may speak…" She waited for another indicative critique from Eragon, stooped upon his sudden flare of belligerence, but he merely stood there, unwavering and irritated under his own visionary semblance. He was waiting.

The man, Vicente, cleared his throat timidly, speaking almost faintly, "I've only ever insinuated my priorities and… _assumptions _through the Varden's best interest. If we consort with individuals sworn to the superiority of another, then we must act precise and ever vigilant. Lady Lorena, if somehow subdued by Galbatorix, will be forced under oath to reveal all and perhaps more. Surely you must see reason under this justification!"

Before Eragon spoke, Nasuada quickly intervened, "Lady Lorena is unaware of our intentions, and therefore cannot possibly reveal anything of significance. I am aware of the incidents, and so is she. If she is _somehow_ apprehended, then yes… she will be forced to reveal all she knows, but she will be surely killed in the event. Her only request is to remain in the keep unharmed, as well as her subjects, and to know as little as possible. Nothing more. Surely, sir, _you_ must see reason."

"She is a threat!" he suddenly bellowed, scowling, "We cannot afford to be forestalled by this atrocity! She must be dealt with!"

"And will you deal with it suitably perhaps?" Eragon, once more, seemingly subjected to some unknown stability of his aggression, harbored and diminishing under his vague façade. Again, under the eve of his voice, the room was silent. Arya was silent. "Will you impose it?" he continued, eyes afar in resentment, "Rightfully condemn her to something she may never inflict. Fittingly, appropriately, aptly under your own deeming assumption?"

And now Nasuada, once more, "Eragon…"

He ignored her. "Will you sit there and presume to know the distinction between right and wrong? How can you conduct yourself so indifferently from everyone else here? Perhaps if you were subdued, or I was subdued," his voice rose, "Perhaps if any one of us here were captured, what then? Will you have them _dealt with_ accordingly under your own ruling? Perhaps _you_ should be dealt with!" Arya slid into a state of mind that was not characteristic of her, especially with Eragon. He was absolutely serious. "You know more," he said, "you assume more, and you impose more of a threat than the Lady herself! Will that be _suitable_ to your rightful insinuations?"

"Eragon!"

The perplexity that overcame her previously suddenly thickened to such an extent that she was no longer confused by Eragons aggression, but inexplicably confounded by him. He seemed relentless, unyielding and completely engulfed within his mania. Her mental comprehension, her capacity to understand was suddenly overwhelmed by what she was witnessing.

Breathing in suddenly, her hand guarded unknowably over the pommel of her sword, silent and pensive through the inlet of her stance, she strays carefully toward Eragon, ever mindful of the eyes watching her as she did so, and stops directly beside him. His petulant eyes, violent and wary in their wake, fell on her as she stood beside him, her back curtly turned to the council and head inclined to his as she watched him carefully.

It seemed as though her very presence sapped his anger and secluded its temperament. He watched, bewildered, eyes suddenly roaming to the gaping individuals seated before them, passively falling to Nasuada's and then reclusively back to Arya's. A quiet resignation seemed to build within him, looking down suddenly, closing his eyes, and then sighing. Any form of degree, any feigning rationality of his mentality, everything passed hesitantly over his face once, only once, but it was gone soon after. She didn't say anything, she didn't have to. He knew, and that was all that needed to be understood.

Doubtful now, hesitant still, he spoke timorously under his semblance, "I have… nothing further to say. Please, excuse me." And with another look toward Arya, distant and all the more resigned; he strode forth away from the table seating the council, eyes to the ground and distracted by some unknown ill constancy, and walked out of the vestibule.

Sufficiently composed despite the disputing tension harboring her being, Arya's eyes searched out Nasuada's, and when she did, Nasuada nodded once, only once in her direction, and that was all Arya needed to subside her reservations. Ever grateful for her assurance, Arya turned subtly, poised as though uncertain of every little action her mind delved, and followed after Eragon.

* * *

><p>With the omnipresent moon tethered and adrift within the northern horizon, straining higher through the ashen clouds, occluding, and the residing stars wavering eternally within the night, Arya ultimately found herself sauntering inaudibly along the stone parapet of the keep, eyes abroad in silent wonder as they glazed conspicuously over the walls in search of Eragon.<p>

She would have thought, or perhaps even envisioned somewhere along the line, that his sudden resignation over something as uncanny as his conscious was harbored within some form of resilience, a degree of fortitude. It was amiss. She could never think to presume his motives, or his act of reason for that matter, his sorrows, and his adversities… his regrets even. But lately however, upon some scarce concept of obligation anchoring her rationality, it seemed as though she simply wanted to… share them, with him…

And there he was, alone, on the cobbled ground and leaning against the parapet wall, staring without an able measure to her precluded awareness, or perhaps to his own. He could not see her.

Distinguishing his line of sight from here, noting how far away he seemed in thought, oblivious, without conjecture… it seemed his contemplation harbored some unknown diversity of intuition, something hindering his state of mind. Standing here now, watching him from within the darkness and in silence, she observed his bearings, the way he leaned forward disdainfully, head inclined; arms perched limply over his knees… she pitied him. He looked… lost.

Sighing faintly into the dark, dolefully closing her eyes and hand falling listlessly off the pommel of her sword, she concluded silently to herself that no matter, despite her own qualms, her unclear sentiments and vague understandings, no matter. Her regrets were her own, something akin to a lifeless reality, and she'd never resolve the subject of her distress by mere aloofness. No longer, nothing further, emotions lost and gained, felt and achieved, guarding them with indifference, no longer.

Seventy years… seventy years of tentative instances, variations of feelings too long kept hidden, sensations withdrawn and amiss. Too long now… and she'd never allow it to become of him. Her mistakes were her own, not his, never his.

Eventually, straying timidly through ambiguity and remoteness, she stepped quietly around the bend, stepping out from within the shadow and treading carefully toward him, her intentions vague, distinct, uncertain, but all the more apparent as she makes herself discernible under the night. Somewhere, upon the obscurity of darkness, thunder rolls upon the endless horizon.

A wind blew over her face, a numinous encircle of whispers without words or malady. And in the wind, within its course, was a light, something familiar as she drew closer to him. A luminosity of unspoken guidance carrying her weakly under the overshadowed moon. It was strange, surreal, and undeniably comforting. She couldn't explain it.

A hushed murmur upon the darkened hush, she speaks only faintly when she approaches him, "Eragon."

He looks up only once, weakly, a surpassing instant of hesitation bearing cruelly over his face for one moment, but discarded within another. She cannot see his eyes, the gentle iris', the kindhearted spirit lidded within his waving semblance, it wasn't there. He turns away from her suddenly, but the manner eludes her before she fathoms it. Without another word, without a feeble, non-impulsed objection or act of defiance to her presence… quietly, elusively, she seats herself beside him and waits. Simply… waits.

Rendered within quietness, yielded under the easing balm of the moonlight, she waits, content to simply sit there forever until he decided to speak. She doesn't recall the time, how long she sits there, the moments, the instances lasting onto the next, forestalled, perhaps even deferred under their silence. But as it passes subtly without an appraisement, she feels an easement, a slow simplicity flouting poignancy over his state of mind, and still she waits, still she's patient, only ever… still.

No apparent recollection of the seconds, no mounting assurance of the minutes, climbing further, further, onward, and numbing through the moments subduing her state of being, Arya says nothing, motions nothing, and imposes nothing.

And then, a succumbing sigh to her left, stalled, distorted, and she feels him shift suddenly as he lifts his head slowly. "I cannot…" he starts, the words seeming strained over his tongue, "I cannot… account for my actions," he breathes in, slowly shaking his head as he keeps his eyes to the ground. He laughs suddenly, a brief shock to Arya, but she remains quite. "Even now," he says, "Even now I cannot find the words to explain my belligerence. I feel like a fool."

"No," she says quietly, faintly, willing for him to hear the precision within her interjection. "Not a fool…" There was no accusation in her next words. "But certainly unfounded."

Pausing vaguely, nervously flicking his thumb over the pore of his finger, he said, "You'd see her judged then… Lady Lorena?"

"No, but will you ensure it?"

"My objections were my own, and without fault. That man has no sympathy, or conscious for that matter."

"And you have no command. Not with those people, not with Nasuada." Although she meant to be humane for his sake, the grievance held within her voice was easily discernible even if she acted to secrete it from him. It couldn't be helped no more then she'd permit it anyway. The melancholy fused within her astuteness, however, was only ever an intentional supplication for his own benefit, a subtle trepidation for his sake, but would he ever discern it?

Without feigning hindrance, frowning unexpectedly as she looks at him questionably from the side, and noting sadly, despite her assurance, that he was still looking away, still adrift, still… somewhere, other than here. She sighs faintly at his side. "It is not your place," she murmurs kindly.

He nods once, only once, slow and deliberate, seeming to understanding her words. "Perhaps… perhaps I am simply too forthcoming."

She smiles weakly, saddened by his allegation. "What is honest is never immoral or forthcoming, Eragon." She sighs, "It is merely a more… becoming approach, more or less."

"And my anger?" he asked, sounding doleful, "What of that? My resentment, the reckless antagonism?"

"Understandable."

"More?" he said suddenly, nearly inaudibly, a questionable doubt lingering under the inlet of his voice, "Or less?"

By his words, and under the tethered eve of darkness, she is silent. It took her strangely aback. For her imagination, as far veiled in hundreds, if not thousands, of different kinds of aspects of realism, had worked on the belief that Eragon was merely irritable, something she was familiar with, an emotion she could easily distinguish beyond his barriers. She had witnessed such a sentiment beforehand with Eragon, perhaps even beyond his own comprehension, but she noticed, even if he didn't. Perhaps, given the circumstances, he was merely being inconsiderate of this. She looked at him, still, and then, for the repeated time tonight, she sighs dejectedly into the night. _No, _she thought, _not inconsiderate._ No, something else harbored his thoughts.

As doubtfully concerned as ever, and without harboring any indication of an ill temper toward him, she lifts her hand, unsure at first, but then places it delicately over his forearm without another acknowledgment to her actions. "Eragon," she murmurs kindly, voice soft, considering, and undoubtedly worried. "What is amiss?" She remembers, reminiscing on past instances, she remembers asking him this once before, long ago in Ellesméra.

He doesn't say anything at first, but merely, he sits withered under his own silence. She watched him carefully, noting the subtle aspects of his being that would otherwise go without conjecture beforehand. His slight, disjointed pose whenever something ailed his thoughts. The simple, yet complex hint of oppression within his eyes whenever he felt miserable. And how something, as uncanny and reformed it may be, how that something, whatever that was, ultimately made her feel just as miserable when he could say all but nothing in its wake. It couldn't be helped. Could it ever be helped?

Thunder rolled within the distance, lingering and oppressive, and reeling closer. She could smell the humidity under the night, the faint, dappled moisture veiling through the air as it mingled in the growing hours of darkness. It would rain soon, she thought torpidly, looking now toward the sky and closing her eyes unexpectedly, breathing in now, and exhaling languidly as a soft caress of the wind brought her to normality.

And beside her, there was suddenly movement. She opened her eyes.

He was looking at her, strangely, leaning now against the wall as he studied her carefully under the dark, watching her, and searching. There was something different, something profound and undeniably strong hooded beneath his gaze, so much that she felt bare within the sudden glint of his careful scrutiny. At first, she doesn't know what to think, or how to act for that matter. It seemed distinctive, comforting somehow, and she couldn't understand why. What had changed, she wondered deliberately, what had happened to make her feel so… different? Yes, strange she thought, but all the more logical as she returned his gaze watchfully, purposefully, and saying nothing.

Despite the night, despite the change of aptitude to distinguish one able feeling from another, she knew now… more than anything. She knew, and she had no idea what to do.

There was something in his eyes now, something in the way his temperament and ail of feeling melded together. But there was something else too, something that made her soul fracture and wither as he looked at her still. She watched, fearful suddenly, concerned and utterly speechless, as he began to tremble slightly. His mouth parted silently as his head bowed passively, looking away from her now in what appeared to be an obvious shame. He was… _crying_. Words, as fickle as they may be, ultimately escaped her as she watched him with the utmost shock and resignation.

"I am alone." he said suddenly, voice timid, defeated by his grief. He shook his head. "We're alone and… I have no idea," he paused, looking away again and staring into the night. Clouds hid the moon, thunder echoed within the darkness. "I have no idea what to do," he whispered sadly, and she was nearly winded by his surety in the assumption. "Saphira and I, we have no one. We…" and now, as he pulled at his hair hopelessly, the all too familiar sentiment. Anger. "We have _no idea _what to do anymore." A pause, a small moment held within quietude, and then a sigh. "I'm lost."

And she cannot help it; she cannot help it at all. Unable to comprehend the sudden despondency encumbering her sensibility, she reaches out upon impulse, perched upon his grief and shifting toward him, moving closer… until her arms are around him and she's holding him against her, one arm over his shoulder, the other around his waist. No words were said between them as he bowed his head into the nook of her neck, only tender whispers uttered through wordless murmurs of comfort, and she leans her forehead over his own as she looks into the ashen night, wondering upon so many feeble things, looking onto the next, and sighing sadly as she holds him against her without conjecture.

She breathes in, a whisper, "Oromis," a slight pause, "You tread upon a fickle belief of abandonment and trepidation… because of Oromis and Glaedr? Because of their deaths?" _Glaedr_, she thought, _was better off dead… _

"I am the last," he said faintly, succumbed to his demise, forlorn. "I am the last free rider of Alagaësia… and I am without virtue or advantage to the ones who are not, and I have no idea what to do."

"You are afraid?"

He laughs passively, empty of merriment. "I've been afraid all my life, Arya." he said timidly, rigid and aloof against her touch, "The simplest things, be it trivial or immense… I merely tend to keep the larger ones at bay while the smaller fight to control me. And even then, I fear that one day… be it tomorrow or another day, one day I fear it'll consume me until I know nothing but hate and oppression. And it will happen, Arya, one day, sooner or later, one day we'll fall, and one day we'll have nothing. There's no hostility in this… only truth."

"And you speak as though it's already tampered with you."

Another pause. "And perhaps… it has."

Silence, subdued by their proximity, and anchored by their willingness to keep it. She thought, perhaps even assumed, that he'd remain stooped over his ill manor of discomfort, but as the time grew and as the night drifted and the humidity dropped to a more heated degree, she began to feel him relax against her, and through time, she did too. Head inclined against the camber of her neck now, as though a sibling to another, two to one, framed and together in a silent, prolonged amity of comfort.. There were simply… logically… no words to define them.

He needed solace, a comfort beyond anything else, and even if he didn't ask for it, she'd give it, again and again. She'd give it.

It disturbed her somewhat, that he could speak so openly about the uncanny demise of hope and faith, however. She had always perceived him to be accepting, unhindered by reality and willing to condone the calamities that fought to distress him, but now, however… she honestly had no idea what to think anymore. He was a puzzle, in every way deemed perplexing, an enigma. And it disturbed, albeit, maybe even confounded her, how alike they truly were when all else seemed utterly vague in comparison.

Thunder once again, resounding, absolute and untimely loud. She sighs.

And when he looks up suddenly, reviving whatever mentality he had beyond the realms of his anguish, he moves away, only slightly, but enough nevertheless. A subtle shift of posture, a forestalled awakening to the sudden awareness harboring each and every individual strain of her being, she suddenly feels his hand take hold of her own, delicately as though feeble, and rests them both timidly between them as they linger profoundly through silence once more, her watching him from the emerald inlet of her eyes, and he her, through the auburn band of his idle gaze. No words, soundless whispers, able thoughts and subtle murmurs of quite recognition… just silence.

He breathes in, looking down once more and then again to her. "Thank you," he said faintly, a smile now, just beneath the surface of his voice, small, but there nevertheless. His smile.

Softly, under the haze of the ashen clouds and starless night, the rain began to fall.

One more smile, an elusive shift of ardency and faith taking hold and rearing into fulfillment, she weakly, if not deliberately, tightens her grip over his hand and languidly, fondly, leans her head over the taut blade of his shoulder and closes her eyes contently as the rain fell delicately over their bodies. And she can feel his head lean over hers in the escalade of familiarity, the perception and the attentiveness, she could feel everything. Enrapt and subsisting within the solitary ease of one another, together, hand in hand, they are still. Not a care in the world, no figment of irritation to the rain or things to come. No, only them.

And for now, that's all they truly needed.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews, believe it or not, are reassuring. Feedback is more then welcome, and my appreciation goes out to those who take the time to submit them... even if they're the occasional charming loather. Stay tuned. <strong>_


	3. Consolation

A necessary note here.  
>Pronunciation: Nietháel: <strong>NEE-thay-ALE<strong>. Daen'dirl: **Dean-Dye-RAL**.

**_Chapter playlist:_**  
>James Newton Howard – Race to Resting Rock (and) That Is Why I Am On This Porch.<br>Clint Mansell – Together We Will Live Forever.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Sweet Silent Thought<span>  
>PART THREE<strong>  
><strong>Consolation<strong>

There was a frigid chill out within the drifting mists of the riverbank, withdrawn, misshapen and undeniably stricken under the cold eve of dawn as the trees swayed delicately under its wake. Arya stood without conjecture, soundless and distinct behind the shadow of an omniscient willow tethered by the bank, watching, and waiting. Her eyes are stern, her body astute to every able sound, and there is nothing in the air that indicates a foul nook of disturbance hindering the woodland… but she knows. She knows better than to assume such a trickery.

Compelled suddenly, her hand flickers direly over the guile feathers tapered over the arrow, her grip steady on the bow, ready.

Far off to her left, an elf kin by the name of Daen'dirl strays carefully under the trees, hidden within the dark and completely silent by her orders. Somewhere, out there beyond the clearing outbound before them, hollowed and devoid of movement by the moment, stood their objective rendered by their own tentativeness. Something, or rather _someone, _was there, hiding.

A gentle stir upon the underbrush, a forestalled drift of both sights and sounds, and an alleviated moment of hesitance on her part as she looks quietly into the clearing, still she waits. But there is still nothing, still silence. Behind her, Blödhgram approaches with trivial feet nearly inaudible to the ear.

"Milady," he whispers carefully, eyes before her and into the open, distant and all the more cautious. "We wait?"

She nods, her gentle breaths eased and calm despite what laid afoot. "Until they stir, we do nothing."

"It is possible," he said, "that we may have been misinformed of this incursion."

"Perhaps…" her eyes drifted watchfully over the clearing, where the trees opened and followed the round nook of the hollow. It was too quiet, too quiet for the cunning at heart. "But we cannot move, lest your speculations prove false and we're compromised under their guard."

"I suspected as much."

And by his silence, they wait, resilient to the growing apprehension aiding the dawn and treading timidly upon a fickle assurance. Adapt and ever wary under his movements, Blödhgram shifted away into the eerie haze of mist hampering the grove, moving only when vigilant, and flanking her by the right and kneeling spitefully into the grass, hand held unmoving over the pommel of his blade.

It was a timorous feeling, waiting for someone or something to give way by the aid of their own disclosure, a sentiment too discouraging under the current predicament. Indeed, word had hollered into the Varden of an assembled faction of soldiers not two days from now, and until now there had been no perception or recognition to this fact until they tracked them into the secluded woodlands over the boarders of the Empire. They were treading carefully now, discreetly, but still cautiously aware of every little thing that surpassed them, and every fickle notion and tentative step had brought them here. Nasuada had requested only the most adapted of soldiers, personally asking Arya and Blödhgram themselves, and who better adapted to the uncultivated land then elves?

Ominous now, a waking call into the ever-vast open too foreboding to discern, the soft breeze ailing her conjecture. She's apprehensive, cautious, but very aware. Nimble feelings of trepidation harbored her degree of thought as she looks unkindly into the open, waiting still, and forestalled silently as her eyes glance guardedly upward and into the canopy of the grove suddenly, looking somberly and determinedly skyward and above.

She watched, passively, as no more than six to seven elves, agile and lithely adapted through every precise movement they held, leapt suddenly limb from limb over the trees. Separated by an individual gap, they moved soundlessly one by one through the canopies, striding delicately over the branches and jumping noiselessly, modified by every subtle twist and turn, to another and pressing quickly into their trunks without an able fault. They moved until they encumbered the glade, hovering like unkindred spirits waiting unto their consent, enclosing the opening and waiting. Each armored with a bow and single saber, subdued, cautious still, they blended effortlessly into the natural fertile plains of the woodland.

She was quick to perceive an eye watching her curiously under the wake of her perception, her own eyes quickly averting and finding a keen pair within the trees. The elf, she remembered now by the name of Nietháel, looked timidly at her under a watchful eye, a soft allure of dark luminance and fealty contorting his features under the shadow above him. He nodded once, quickly, and reverted back toward the glade. All was set.

And perchance, as her congealed eyes set upon the glade sternly once again, the land, the trees, and the shadows relayed by their natural edifice, something… _something_ flickered distinctly in the distance. Arya stood fixed, gazing intently without a feeble doubt to sway her resolve. She perceived in the morning gloom a figure suddenly, which stowed from behind the thicket, moving slowly now, in careful watch of their seemingly hidden motions, but Arya saw all… and so did her kinsmen. It couldn't be mistaken. The wind, which had fallen softly into the south, now rose ceaselessly into fruition once more.

One abrupt look into the canopy, and already Nietháel's eyes were upon her again, attentive and alert, ready. To her right, Blödhgram stood passive, poised and erect like a startling creature ready to spring. His eyes quickly strayed timidly over hers, confirming the sudden disturbance as well as waiting for the set intention of her command. Waiting for her, fortified and inclined to remain motionless by her leave, hearts, blood, breathes and views quickened at the mere sight of another detachment of militia apart from their own. It meant their sequence of information had been correct. An incursion had arisen in their midst, and they were hidden barely twenty meters or so ahead of them. Nausada had been correct to assume this infiltration.

Having adjusted to the subliminal feeling of agitation, moreover, throughout the course of the abrupt realization that any sudden movement could ultimately lead to their demise, Arya lapsed slowly onto the ground before her, slipping into the gloom and leaving her eyes cast afoot in quiet alarm. Blödhgram's hand lay sternly over the pommel of his rapier, crouching gravely behind a cumbersome willow and aptly hid beneath the small glut of ferns embedded from the trunk. He was still in distance of conveyance, she noted subconsciously.

A whisper, denoted and restrained somewhat, she murmured through the native tongue alarmingly. "We must re-…"

A sickening sound hollered into the glade suddenly. Sharp, immediate, and braying under the cold eve of dawn, the sound was undeniably distinguishable to the prying ears of her kinsmen, to her, and to anyone else who were open to the cold reverberation it imparted. The thick, rapid strum of a taut bowstring resounded almost tersely. Withered by the sound, stiff by the procuring sound after it, the plummeting velocity of an arrow severing the air, her blood palpitated violently and her eyes suddenly sought after it. She heard what only her ears deemed to be awful, a horrible cry meeting the pierce of the string drawing back, and she watched distraughtly as an elf fell from the perch over the glade.

She saw him fall, watched him quiver miserably as he trembled onto his death. The desolate specter that glazed within her eyes followed him through to the demise, and further sounds sought her ears as he plunged into his end. Shouts, blaring throughout the glade, tainted the air and ascended into the woodland like bellowing thunderclouds. It was as though a sudden, rapid chain of causality had fallen into fruition upon his death. From amidst the wary shadow and mist came the march. Men armored and at the ready suddenly darted from within the underbrush and hollered directly toward them. Breathing heavily, eyes partially skimming from her fallen kinsmen to the men running toward her, she stood.

With a grimace upon her brow and a violent shade within her eye, she drew back her bow and released. Her target was definite. With a grave shriek, the skirmisher flew back and onto the ground by the sheer force of her arm.

Hostile yells pierced the obscured daybreak. She looked up, startled by the sudden hostility of the sounds, and watched direly as her kinsmen leapt from their assigned posts. One by one they bounded from their perches, quick and lithe, scampering through the branches and re-emerging from amongst the foliage. She too, harbored by the mornings wake and its dejected becoming, leapt forth and engaged. Blödhgram was quickly beside her, as well as Daen'dirl, both armed with a taut bow and retracting the arrows one by one into their targets. They ran in unison, skimming over the elevated grass as though bounded by a certain antagonism. Beyond her sight she could perceive men and elves alike engaging in a maddened cascade of blood and steel. Cries, pain ridden and helpless, resonated distinctly within the glade.

She was overcome with a sudden fervor, a feeling wrought with resentment and vehemence. She could feel her body fall to the devastation of its effect. An almost rapid dedication liquidates her arm as she draws back another arrow and releases it upon her heightened will. It didn't miss.

Running, braying as though a pinnacle of unmatched rivalry, Arya quickly fastened her bow over her armored shoulder and unsheathed her sword. To her right, Blödhgram muttered something indistinctly under the ancient language. Abruptly under the act, both Blödhgram and Daen'dirl ran ahead of her, unsheathing their rapiers and deploying themselves before her as though to shelter her from the brawl ahead. If not for the sullied contempt bordering their current situation, she would have deemed it thoughtless and unwarranted. But it was not to be trifled with, not now.

Two skirmishers came forthwith beyond a thicketed copse of trees. Almost immediately her companions drew back their arms and matted furiously toward the men, their bodies adamant and their blows crossed. One died instantly by the stern hand Blödhgram's aim. The other ducked by a shaded fern and attempted to folly Daen'dirl's blow by rearing his axe over his head and blocking him. The deplorable act was in vain. Daen'dirl's opponent was at an end when he was kicked backwards into the same fern and silenced by a rapid draw of a brusque blade.

Frantic shouts and cries were mingled with the vile resounds of cold steel and bow strings. The glade was scarcely without a soul who wasn't amidst the combat. Arya quickly asserted forward and beyond the hollering masses, evading the long wooden shafts of arrows and stooping around the glade easily without a fault. Two men, once again, ascended toward her with their weapons protruding before them aggressively. Blödhgram and Daen'dirl were already occupied, but it was nevertheless tolerable on her part.

They were upon her swiftly, snarling heatedly and drawing back their blades. She parried one swiftly enough, turning now, spinning agilely and lacerating the others abdomen and quickly evading another blow. The man was relentless, charging immediately and again when she persistently parried him away, but she was astute enough to realize her own strengths. It was he who had no idea. With a final draw she grasped his wrist before he struck her, erratically rearing him backwards and throwing him into a cluster of foliage behind him. He cried out unexpectedly. She ran, before the fool could recover, quickly leaping over the same foliage and slitting his throat within a swift and nimble alter of her arm.

She was at a pace, breathing heavily and moving sternly upon a vast tirade of emotions. A shiver of reanimation fell upon her, a thrill of ambition. All at once she could see men and elves alike thrusted into an unrelenting struggle of blood and warfare. Screams, gouging to the ear, plummeted into the glade. Flickers of steel and arrows combined, grunts, whimpers… fire within the mist. Arya's eyes fell before her, sidestepping once and cutting another man's throat. He fell with a terrible sound, coughing, suffocating under the gluts of his own blood. She sighed roughly, almost pitiably, and protruded her blade through his chest. Smoke was in the air.

"Arya!" She turned, raising her blade quickly, but stopped. Blödhgram ran toward her, fast and adapt, braying his arm violently before him and killing the few that stood between him and her. Blood had dried over his forehead. It wasn't his. "Arya," he said, his breaths quick and stopping short in front of her. "An encampment, a mile or so east. More await us there." A man screamed suddenly.

Both eyes fell quickly to her left. Blödhgram snarled heatedly and pressed a man unexpectedly away from her as came from amidst the scattering mist and smoke. He cut him down easily, falling over him and grinding his armored knee into the man's stomach as he did so. Arya too, scolding herself for the distraction, stood atop of them both and held her blade severely over the man's neck. Blödhgram held him still.

"Wretched ilk!" he hissed crossly at her, grunting in the rouse of the gash inflicted over his shoulder that Blödhgram committed. He was a brute of a man, she noted simply. His face seemed immensely distorted from numerous, if not more, conflicts over the course of his feeble life, although… she couldn't say she cared for it. "Word of our demise will surely unfold across the land upon this folly," he said, spitting at her feet and smiling horribly. "It'll be inevitable…" he was cut off suddenly.

He whimpered, moaning terribly when Blödhgram's brawny fist met with his face before he could say anything more. Arya, as though deliberately inducing a taunting manor, inclined her head to the side and looked sternly into his now heavily bloodshot eyes, her blade still over his neck. "You'd be wise to hold your tongue, sir." Within the distance, across the glade and feathered in the air like a tainted poison, what was obviously the last of the dispatched men suddenly drifted away under the silence of their own deaths. The cries were feeble. The battle had not been long. She eyed the brute carefully. "What reason," she asked, "What purpose commanded you to be here? Tell me, now."

"I will say nothing to you!"

She allowed her blade to weakly incise his neck. He groaned harshly into the grass. "You will tell me, sir, why you are here." A furious glint was held within her eyes as she fixated them irritably over his withered form. "We have not followed this fickle trail to be lead astray so easily by your cobbling. Tell us, lest you prefer your tongue to be cut from your mouth."

The nameless man struggled fruitlessly against Blödhgram's powerful hold. He moved, but his attempts were futile. "Alas," he said finally, "I am but a poor foot soldier."

"Then I have no further use for you." There was no sentiment within her words, only severity. She pressed her blade harder into his neck. He cried out.

"Please!" he struggled further to attain his strength, but Blödhgram's arms held him nearly immobile. "Please," he said again, whimpering almost pathetically, "I know nothing but what they told us! Stop!" His voice began to wither under the blood merging from his throat. "I'll… spea-"

"Arya." Blödhgram spoke weakly, as though something crossed him deeply, something considerate and profoundly adamant. He looked up, searching her eyes but seeing nothing. "He wishes to speak, milady."

Her eyes betrayed absolutely nothing. It was as though something dark, something severe and strictly unfathomable had overwhelmed her sense of responsibility suddenly. It carried her, drove her, but there was also regret. She looked at Blödhgram slowly, timidly, watching him carefully beneath the emerald inlets of her gesturing gaze. She noted his concern, the way his face emitted calmness suddenly, speaking of a scarce sensibility that had otherwise escaped her. She could feel it crack and disperse over her contorted rationale as her eyes remained remotely over his own.

Hesitantly now, turning her gaze and looking upon the weakly lidded man over the ground, she lifted the tip if her blade. "Speak," she said softly, sighing reclusively into the hazy mist and smoke. "What did they tell you?"

She allowed the man to breathe, feeling suddenly foolish and remorseful. She herself relished the small moment of fortitude. She collected herself, rallied her mentality and instead remained fixated upon their objective. And so they waited, leaving the nameless man to gather himself together without a fault. He was no longer struggling to be released, and Blödhgram losened his arms only faintly. "Speak," he said, albeit somewhat firmly.

Another breath, another reanimation of fortitude. He rallied himself quickly, looking now between the both of them. "We were to convene with another detachment two days from now," he said thickly, timidly watching them from his rugged position and moistening his lips suddenly. "Each were given a prevailing captain, only one, to lead a division of fifty men. I thought it odd, but neither my interest nor my irritancy could lead me to question the Son of Morzan."

Alarm hastily surpassed her curiosity. "The Son of Morzan?" She looked to Blödhgram, noting his sudden disturbance also. "It was he who commissioned this faction?"

"Both," he said, although not without a grievance to his voice. "It is what I said beforehand," he continued, "I thought it odd that both parties could not traverse the terrain together. 'What harm in another fifty,' I thought, but again, I never deliberated questioning my superior. It was only my assumption that these orders were conceded by the King himself, that's why it seemed fit for any of us not to question. What the King demands, we do, as it has always been."

"What was to become of these divisions?" She asked quickly.

"I know not." He looked at Blödhgram, eyes resilient, and then back to Arya. "I knew only that we were to travel separately assigned with a single prevailing captain. One was to travel to a given location, the other under the same circumstances, but only to an entirely different location all together. The captain did not reveal to us where it was that we were assigned to, but it was my belief that we were heading somewhere close to Belatona, but I cannot be certain. I cannot tell where the others went, merely because we were never informed of their intentions either. The words that were given were this 'Come time you will meet them sooner then you realize, and all will be unwritten upon your unity.' He spoke these words; he did, to all of us, the Red Rider… I'm sorry." His head fell back weakly against the grass, whimpering feebly and clutching his shoulder. "Please…" he said.

Arya, wrought with distress and regret for her inability to remain regulated, sheathed her sword and placed a tentative hand over Blödhgram's shoulder, "Let him be," she said faintly, "His strength has withered. Fleeing is beneath his capability."

By her command, Blödhgram tentatively released him, standing now, and looking down harshly. In his stead, however, Arya unexpectedly kneeled before the footmen. He scurried somewhat, perplexed and frightened, but she merely regarded him with cold indifference nevertheless. "You will experience a peculiar feeling," she uttered suddenly, placing her hand gently over his shoulder and muttering, "Waíse Heil." The glade illuminated dimly as the magic flowed almost effortlessly from one body into the other. First his shoulder, and then his neck as she willingly healed him without conjecture. Her eye lids slipped closed as she felt a fragment of weariness settle over her, breathing regularly, and remaining fixated. Within the haziness of her efforts, she felt the ground quiver as footsteps neared her.

The magic depleted, and soon enough the eeriness of the glade had dispersed and faded away into a vast nothingness, all was well. Arya opened her eyes, seeing now Nietháel and Daen'dirl, and to her attentive note, the rest of her kinsmen surrounding them. She saw, eyes still and saddened suddenly; the fallen elf that had died within the dispute perched limply with another's arms. It seemed he was the only casualty.

"The encampment has been impaired, milady." It was Nietháel who spoke. He stood erect and reflexive, his peculiar black eyes holding a strong vitality and obedience as they watched her warily from afar. "Few escaped, perhaps even less then I may assume. But it seems there was nothing to glimpse from their dwelling. It seems we pursued them here for nothing." His eyes suddenly fell strictly upon the soldier. Something strange and profoundly incensed crossed his stoic face. "And what of him?" he asked.

The elves were a stern cascade of impassiveness. All but their fallen comrade held a furious advisability within their astute postures, perhaps even her, kneeling still before the lone soldier, looked somewhat insensitive. It was to be expected, nonetheless, on their part. Their assumptions fell to the predicament of their becoming here. To them, they had achieved little. Despite what they may seem, she and her kind, despite the almost insensible façade whenever faced with a dispute, the slaughtering of lives held no glory for them, only the truth that their actions may benefit from their carnage. For them, here and now, they had committed nothing but the murders of their rivals, and they were at quarrels with that reality. They didn't know what she and Blödhgram knew.

"He is to be released," she said finally, looking at Nietháel, and then to everyone else. "Assuming he has not led us astray and has told us all he knows."

The soldier was livid. "I have told you all I know!" She perceived fear more than anything else. He was afraid she'd healed him only to be strung up into the brink of death once more. Such a pitiful man, she thought intriguingly.

Daen'dirl stepped forth suddenly, snarling aggressively and looking impatiently toward the inert soldier. "You would do well to mind your manner you incompetent fool!"

"Be still, Daen'dirl." She murmured firmly under the ancient language, although not crossly. "He is no more a threat then the deceased harboring this glade. The man is only fearful for what is to come…" and then strictly, almost inaudibly, she said, "And our incursion here was not in vain. We have purpose, and our actions today have not been without cause. This I promise you." Small whispers and sighs alike resounded immediately after her consultation. At last, their minds were at ease, merely because of a few desperate words from a desperate foot soldier, as it were.

Resiliently, once more now, she looked down into the eyes of the soldier. "You say it was the Son of Morzan?" Murmurs sounded distinctly within the glade by the sudden revelation.

He nodded, "Yes."

"And your precise intentions? You cannot say where you were to be assigned?"

"No, I cannot."

"And you are sure," she asked now, her voice resolute even under a stern and quiet tone. "You are absolutely sure that you cannot account for the other detachment of soldiers? You cannot say where they will be? Speak quickly."

"No," he said. "I swear it. I cannot account for their whereabouts. I swear upon the graves of my forefathers."

She sighed fixedly, looking to Blödhgram for some viable means of explanation, but he seemed just as astoundingly oblivious as she was to the situation. Having nothing further to say, she stood, easing away from the soldier and offering him to stand also. He did, holding his shoulder timidly and looking nervously upon his whereabouts. What was left of the once recurring smoke had now faded into the air. Upon the mornings growing lucidity, the sun began to ascend and dapple the leaves and bloodied foliage, and the morning mist feathered under the copse of trees began to wither away. She could see, not more than a mile ahead, just as Blödhgram had noted amidst the skirmish, the now ruined encampment of the imperial soldiers. It had been set alight, she noted, a viable reason for the smoke. She had been confused about that particular cause of events. No longer.

"You will not kill me?" The soldier, still clutching his shoulder, looked at her as though to seek retribution. She would not give it. The act was hopeless. "You will let me go?"

Her eyes are inactive, setting only on him and watching him carefully. And when she speaks, she voices only directness. "Perhaps now you would not think us as easily wretched as you so adamantly proclaimed." She stepped aside. "Go now, and don't make me regret granting you clemency. Begone."

The elves watched him leave. Rendered under their stern capability, they remained cautiously afoot in the wake of his leaving, and even then, when the soldier had finally disappeared beyond the thicket, even then they remained poised to act. She too, rendered under her own rationale, stood watching. It was upon her own defiance that she looked to Blödhgram once more. "We must return to the Varden."

* * *

><p>Night, merely after dark, hampered and besieged within an innate, fickle luminosity that kindled the stars just beyond the wintry mists and gloom. Upon the dark, dreary and solemn winter night feathered into a pervasive glimmer, Arya sits indiscernibly upon the serpentine boarder over the woodlands edge. The trees are eased somewhat, audibly swaying and lessening through the forefronts of the softened breeze, and she allows it to still her.<p>

Her eyes are weary, agitated, and perhaps even timid under the growing semblance of both moonlight and shadow as she casts them upon the dim horizon, but that was the least of her harbored being. Thoughts of apprehension held her motionless upon the embankment, and she allows them to bear. She allows them to affect her.

"Peculiar, is it not?" The stern voice emitted distinctly within the darkness like a grave amendment, but neither its abruptness nor its resonance staggered her into bewilderment. Nietháel materialized from within the thicket, stepping guardedly from the backwoods and into the weightless light and watching her from beneath his strange yet formidable gaze. His stationary face was fixed within an unchanging façade. It was direct, still and stooped between unrest and fidelity, unabashedly ashen and white under the dreary luminosity. He looked at her quietly, eyes afoot and bleak and yet strangely reassuring. "Forgive the intrusion, milady."

Arya remained stagnant by impulse. A cautionary fortitude, but vital nevertheless, although she shifted somewhat to look at the strange elf. "As you will," she said, inclining her head weakly. "But whatever do you mean?"

"Merely the thought of oddity, as it were." He ambled sinuously upon the knoll, eyes afar as he poised himself listlessly before her. He seemed wary, unbridled by sound and fixated upon something unseen to her. A sudden fall of disposition, however, and his formidable observations sought hers once again. "It is with a curious thought that I speculate our actions barely a day before yesterday," he said, "Nevertheless, this particular oddity concerns a man, milady. Simple, by any means sociable, but I am referring to, of course, the soldier you released within the glade. What he said disturbs me."

Of course. Encumbered upon the folly of their calamity, he was simply swayed within the trepidation of their predicament. A partition of footmen scurrying the land whom had been seemingly led astray by their lack of knowledge was daunting. Even more, this _other_ battalion was perhaps still nomadic, still traversing and still somewhere where they couldn't account for… and they were within the Varden's foresight. The foreshadowed words, she remembered now, the words of Murtagh spoken within a disheartened temperament. _Come time you will meet them sooner then you realize…_ she sighed aimlessly.

"Perhaps we should further exude our assignment within the Empire's boundaries." Nietháel turned, looking now upon the darkened horizon abroad within the heavens. "Although I fear this trickery is beneath us."

She sighs reclusively into the forlorn night, thinking. Laden, reduced under the curious enigma, a straying thought that provokes her into hesitance like a constant irritable notion at the back of her head, she wonders adamantly, persistently. _All will be unwritten upon your unity…_ The cunning words of Murtagh swayed her into anxiety, although it was never revealed. The soldier, too, had been somewhat fearful of his revelation, but it was utterly baffling. Trickery indeed, there was merely no explanation for the causality of events. They had no basic assumption on _where_ this other faction of soldiers could be. Perhaps a means of deliberation upon their return to the Varden would be in order, especially if this particular commotion became more… critical.

"We remain dutiful, Nietháel, and nothing more," Finally she turned, looking now into his peculiarly blackened eyes. They looked ashen under the night, stark and completely devoided of life. Arya barely dwelled upon the striking appearance of his façade, but watching him now stirred something terrifyingly complicated within her. He appeared so fixedly petrifying. However, in contrast he exuded an unyielding calmness about him. Perhaps he merely preferred a conception of alarm to conceal himself. Of course, it was to be expected. It was a characteristic semblance for an elf to hide that which is never known, but for someone to appear as dark and fearsome as Nietháel… it was discouraging.

"Nothing more," he repeated, more so for the validation of its meaning rather than for its utterance. There was no ridicule within his words.

"Yes," She stood, fixing her palm over the pommel of her blade and returning her gaze to the night. "Unless we are cautious on the matter, we cannot hope to succeed in remedying it."

"When you informed us of the circumstances regarding that fickle human barely two days ago I expected a degree of determination within your explanation." He too, aided by the fortitude of the night, gave her a passing glance before inclining his grave sight further into the darkness. "Ultimately," he continued, "I feel that this incursion is at a peak. We're missing something, milady, something vital, and I fear it'll come to pass sooner than we realize." He sighed remorsefully, a brief shock to Arya, but the grave inclination of his forehead swayed her rationale from thinking otherwise. "We are blinded."

It was but a chilling rasp in the wake of a cold shiver that spooked her into hesitance once more. However, upon shifting timidly and stepping soundlessly toward Nietháel, the fear of deceit and anxiety bared easily over her lucid face, and this time… this time she allowed it to be seen. He knew what weighed her. Critically so, a blockade of indifference veiled his being, so much that it petrified her. There was no barrier, no guise or mask to hide his unexplained misery. Nothing at all. Merely, he allowed it to show. He wanted it shown.

And as such… that is why she allowed her own fears to be seen.

"It is but a shade of doubt and despair that burdens our judgment, Nietháel." She allocated her eyes sternly upon his own as he coldly turned his head toward her, watching and deliberating and withholding absolutely nothing in his stern morality. He was intent to listen, rendered and capable, but still indistinct. Arya's voice betrayed little of the cold feeling hampering her heart. "Alas," she continued, "It will not be our downfall. The Varden are dependent on the tidings we have discovered, and as such, we shall deliver it with earnest. However, this small incursion is indeed beneath us." A flicker of optimism lidded her voice suddenly. "Furthermore, this petty faction of men could quiet possibly be nothing. It is quite possible they were misled also."

"And yet," he interjected, "Their whereabouts are completely unknown. A dangerous folly, milady, one I hope will not impair the welfare of our Shur'tugal."

She was silent for a moment, thinking mutely upon one too many things that were otherwise left unsaid, but were there nevertheless. It lingers over her. It disperses over her mind and soul. She could feel it now, this… this foreign emotion obscuring her rationale. It leered at her, nerved her, and it was somewhat encouraging in her lack of understanding it. It was left undisclosed as she sighs jadedly into the night. Arya ignored Nietháel's later sentence and instead focused on the earlier as she spoke up…

"Unknown, yes, but not unheard of." She watched him curiously, waiting for him to question her further, but he was silent. She continued. "Whispers will surely meet our pry, Nietháel. They always do, and be that as it may, we will surely act upon suspicion." She began walking away, stepping quietly over a nestled fern and ambling sinuously toward the backwoods where, upon the eve of night, the rest of their kinsmen laid waiting within a sleepless state. However, upon impulse, she turned once more. Nietháel had not moved. "Be content," she said, "For tomorrow we'll reach the Varden and underlay our findings to Nausada and these men will be dealt with accordingly. For now, however, we can do nothing but deliberate. Goodnight, Nietháel, and be at peace." And then lastly, once more, she turned and sauntered into the trees. Tomorrow would be a new day. Moreover, the journey would be tedious, and she needed to rest. She expected Nietháel to do as such also.

Although, upon the progression of midnight, where her eyes still flickered and stayed ahead of her while she sat undisturbed, she saw him still. He was standing, watching the dreary heavens and fixating himself indiscernibly so. From amidst the trees she saw him still, unfeigned and remaining motionless.

Until dawn, that is where he stayed.

* * *

><p>"Men, you say?" Nasuada leaned apathetically upon the large, refined oaken table that stood within Fienster's main vestibule. It was the main entryway that led directly into the copious hall sheltering what was left of the Varden's plighted counsel. Before them, however, just beyond the dappled hall and within the vestibule and looking discernibly agitated, the Varden lady stood guarded. With a strained voice, she continued, "And under Murtagh's guard, nonetheless. Nothing more was discerned from this captive?" she paused, sighing wearily and appearing afflicted, "One who you allowed to go, might I add?" There was no allegation or blame in her words.<p>

Arya, passively grave and standing somewhat to the left of the table, remained capably fortified by will. "Submission acted in his favor, milady," she said. "And in accordance, generosity spared his life."

"Perhaps." Nasuada allowed herself to be seated, albeit slowly and unexpectedly listlessly. She looked undoubtedly stricken and encumbered by doubt and dejection, although, by Arya's pry, she seemed shameless in revealing it. "But detaining him would have been somewhat… beneficial." She added finally. "And even if he had refused, we could have attained his information through a more _insistent_ method."

"By having him relentlessly investigated and antagonized?" She queried suddenly. Arya eyed her curiously from where she stood, and as such, the Lady did neither flinch nor frown at her impulsive allegation. Regardless, Arya had no entitlement to voice such an issue, especially to Nasuada, but her cares for the reality of its meaning were little. "We had attained all there was to be revealed," she sighed, adding quickly. "There was nothing more to consider. Detaining him would have been unnecessary."

For a moment, pressingly so, silence stretched on between them. Nasuada seemed, for awhile now, to consider Arya's grievously acute words, and still, she would not say anything. Arya found no fault in her actions though, and held her ground without further deliberation on the matter.

Of course, when Nasuada attentively mentioned a _more insistent method, _Arya couldn't help but delve into the past she'd spent so long disregarding. Gil'ead was latently staged within her thoughts indefinitely. It veiled her despairingly, and she would live forever to see it hover within her thoughts like a withering entity. For Nausada to insinuate such a thing, and even so, to presume she, or someone else even, would utilize it on another, was sickening to her. She was merely agitated, nothing more, and felt disillusioned by Nasuada's lack of confidence in her recollection of the events leading to the discovery of this "rouge" faction of soldiers. Her anger was well placed, but hidden.

A passing glance to the open window, however, and Nausada abruptly exhaled as she breathed in loudly. "Torture?" she asked suddenly, declining into Arya's suspicion. Her weary voice was laced within a disapproving manner as her eyes skimmed toward Arya once again. Arya herself was still, but was taken aback when Nausada began pointedly, "Rather quick to assume the severity of our tactics then you are to assume Galbatorix's, are you not?" Her eyes were immobile as she stared without resolve, "Pray hope, that you have not disregarded the callous methods and ways of the Empire whenever one of our own are detained. Do you forget that he, a merciless persecutor, would show little if not none of the cares in the afflictions of others where you have shown them clemency?"

Although she did not reveal it, more so for the sake of Nasuada's fatigued manner then for her own, Arya was becoming exceedingly, if not grievously, enraged in the presence of Nausada. An incensed flicker within the inlets of her emerald eyes would hold sway, precisely so in the wake of Nausada's sudden tirade, but she would rather refrain herself merely for the sake of ensuring the Lady's state of mind. Arya was, for the benefit of the doubt, becoming increasingly impatient, but her angered temperament would accomplish little in the face of reality.

Quietly, if not somewhat inaudibly, she muttered vigilantly, "You would dare assume my knowledge on the subject?"

"You of all people, Arya." Nausada treaded carefully. Her words were guarded, hesitant even, but that never stopped her from presuming something unfounded in the first place. "I would have thought you, of all people, would understand our conditions here. We are too fickle, Arya." And then, much to the infuriating condemnation of Arya, she suddenly alleged, "Perhaps it is time we surrender this flaw, this clemency, and equally show them heartlessness."

Arya was deafly silent. There was very little, albeit nothing at all, which could account for the resentment seething within her troubled soul. Nausada would exploit the suffering of others by bestowing torture? This was an aggrieved liability she had never thought to have seen in her, especially within the attendance of one who had already undergone such calamities in the past. She would _dare?_ She would dare exact it?

Arya was rendered within the pinnacle of hate nearly. And despite feeling somewhat aghast for her own thoughts regarding this, she couldn't care for them. Nausada was instating the means of agony to obtain information, falling within dark limitations of Galbatorix himself, and for that reason, Arya condemned her.

And looking at her now, watching the Lady strictly with livid eyes, she inclined her head to the parapet floor and muttered abhorrently, "Man torturing man is a fiend beyond description." She glanced up, eyes severe and glazing over fiercely. "And for you to employ it is a fault that abolishes description entirely. I do not deal in retaliation with such methods, and for you to venture into my affairs and have me ponder brutality is beyond thoughtlessness. You are tired, and in need of rest, and for that matter I will ignore these baseless measures you have considered. But hear this, I will _never_ utilize or permit such actions for the Varden or for you. You have my word. If ever you choose to consider the devises of one's suffering, you shall lose whatever respect you have from myself and my people. This I will promise you… Nasuada."

There was a moment perhaps, when everything stalled and nothing else was permitted within their tightly interlaced banter, that Arya felt somewhat liable for whatever conflict arose between them. Indeed, she had spoken ill of Nausada's terms, and of her character in general, but surely it was tolerable given the circumstances. She was angered beyond comprehension. Nausada looked lamented in the face of her actions, and more so, she looked profoundly mortified.

It seemed nothing would provoke the bantered silence held belligerently between them, but when suddenly the large oaken doors opened and Eragon stepped through the threshold, Arya suddenly secreted all thoughts and feelings from crossing her face. Nausada too, stunned, hid her ill-stricken trepidation as he walked slowly toward them.

"I am not late, am I?" he asked, looking from Nausada, and then lastly to Arya. She saw, looking now as he glided his eyes over her own, that a slight frown inclined in between his brows. She turned, discounting his latent concern and looked to the window, seeing now the late afternoon press onwards beyond the city and over the serrated foothills.

Nausada spoke, breaking the lingering silence. "Not at all, Eragon. We were, given the time, about to commence. The counsel awaits us, but I'm afraid there is little or none to disclose at this present time."

Pensively, Arya cast her eyes toward Nausada once more, deliberating the Varden Lady's next course of words as she manipulated the situation to her defects. Eragon himself, much to Arya's irritation, seemed discernibly conscious to the discussion shared barely a moment ago, but like Arya, he was cautious to reveal little of it. However, distinguishing this, Arya felt all the more imprudent in voicing her affronted opinions concerning Nasuadas _considerations_ beforehand_._

"Little or none." Eragon, still perceiving the agitation within the room, remained vigilant as he repeated Nausada's restless words, however, not acting within a ridiculing manner. "Perhaps," he added, looking once more toward Arya, and then back to Nausada. "Perhaps my being here is unneeded then, if it is of no requirement, milady. By your will."

She permitted a small, weary smile. Arya remained impassive, although growing tired of this petty indifference. "It seems tonight is just another unnecessary precaution, I'm afraid. You have my apologies, Eragon, and my thanks. You may go." He bowed slightly as he fixated himself purposefully before her, regarding little or nothing in the face of his valediction, and then turned to leave without further forethought on the matters unseen to him.

Before doing so, however, he chanced one more glance toward Arya. Although no words were spoken within the fickle moment, allowing his pry to meet her eyes confirmed his doubts upon Nausada's allegation. He left without saying a word.

Encumbered by her withered state of mind, Arya made no reservations to address Nausada as she, too, began to depart from the vestibule without saying anything in her wake. Instead, harbored weakly between thoughts of apprehension and irritancy, she made to leave without any additional misgivings to their discussion beforehand. It was beneath her, and she would not consent to it.

"Arya." She stopped short with her hand barely over the doorframe, declining to look back as Nausada grievously remained cautious and still by the oaken table behind her. Arya says nothing, but the voice that met her within the entryway withheld her from leaving sooner. "I hope," she said now, sounding doleful and all the more wearisome in the affliction of her faults. Arya remained fixated where she stood. "In the visage of this disagreement, perhaps, if ever I arise from this flaw, I will then see myself a wiser woman, just as I see you." She paused, sighing. "I hope this petty deficiency will cease to exist, lest I become aggrieved and shun myself for insulting a friend. I have nothing more to say except… well, except that I am sorry for ever critiquing your own wisdom."

Although, saying nothing and imposing no movement whatsoever to account for her sentiments in the matter, Arya stood inertly and durably so. Perhaps, if she turned to meet Nasuada's inquisitiveness, she would accept her admission of guilt and be done with this misgiving. But she was angered, weatherworn by the lasting duration of the day, and in need of rest. It would be another moment, perhaps, another instant in time when Arya would find the gratification needed to accept Nausada's request for forgiveness. Although, sighing now and inclining her head somewhat, it would not be tonight.

And without another word, lingering in silence and nothing more, Arya unfastened the doors and stepped out and onto the parapet terrace.

* * *

><p>"<em>Man torturing man is a fiend beyond description…"<em> Alone, once again, however aggrieved and somewhat irritated and frustrated. Night had befallen, kindled and alight within a pale luminosity. Willingly confined within the enclosure of her own chambers, she feels the loathing of her own words condemn her into disgust. She's sitting over the floor, forestalled and unmoving by the open windowpane, looking and watching nothing in particular, but staring nevertheless, staring at nothing. Doubt lingers almost hauntingly over her sensibility as her eyes remained fixated into oblivion. Her mind is elsewhere however, and far beyond the reaches her rational pry. _"And for you to employ it…" _she sighs reclusively as her head inclines to the floor, hearing own words mock and leer at her.

Arya saw herself now, merely days if not a week or so beforehand, standing within the same glade where the encumbered soldiers of the nomadic platoon had been eradicated by her and her kinsmen. Her mind's eye saw the inevitable of what was. She saw Blödhgram's fortified eyes as well as the nameless soldier lying pitifully over the bloodied grass… with her blade upon his neck as he begged her, pleaded with her to stop… It had inched into his skin, slowly, further and further as she stood domineering above him. Emotionless.

Sitting here now, Arya saw herself, her lifeless eyes and inert face, holding a blade that had cut deeper into his flesh, agonizing him… _torturing _him.

Hypocrisy, she thought severely, was a dire thing, and she employed it when she condemned Nasuada's vile implication of cruelty. Torture, something she herself… had committed.

"… _is a fault that abolishes description entirely…"_

Her jaw clenches angrily as she feels the loathing of her own actions condemn her into nausea.

* * *

><p>"<em>How, typically, pathetic…" <em>a voice of cold apathy. The fragile, battered flesh upon her body shivers horribly in the wake of its malicious bearer, and the erratic whimper that parts her mouth suddenly… fades despairingly into the shadows as her dampened eyes perceived the apparent voice. She lies, hopelessly, over the cold ground of her caged enclosure. _"Amusement utilizes pleasure only when someone seeks to amuse, elf…" _A painful breath as she moves slowly to elude the voice's bearer. She's crawling now, lamenting, and wallowing fruitlessly into the corner, nowhere… nowhere to go… "_And I am, by far, amused." _A hand seizes the back of her neck aggressively…_ "You, as well as your wretched kind, disgust me… You will get up! Now…!" _The sharp grip draws her backwards into oblivion…

Arya's eyes slipped open abruptly as she sat up immediately from the comfort of her bed. Her throat constricts violently under the staggered darkness… and the perplexity in which it happens petrifies her entirely. The small cry that emits from her dry throat dissuades her as her hands suddenly sought her neck. A tear falls silently. Nothing. Her breaths are heavy, deep, as they resounded horribly within the darkened room as her frantic eyes glazed over in panic. She noticed now, searching her chambers, that she was alone. There was no one, nothing but her. Alone… utterly, and irrevocably alone.

Repressed waking dreams of anguish brought Arya forthwith from amidst her meditative slumber. Perspiration covered her cold skin. Horribly pale, she felt numb suddenly, as though some unknown cause of instability compressed and suffocated every able limb and bone within her body. Her hands sought the sheets beside her quivering body as she steadied her breaths, balling her fists tightly and looking, looking but never seeing…

Her damp eyes fell to her bared arm, searching for the wounds, the punctures that mutilated her flesh. Her nails sought the disfigurements urgently, searching, scratching…

Miserably overwhelmed, violent, unbridled emotions consuming her faltering disposition, she leapt from the bed suddenly. Bellowing dejectedly as though falling without end, in an unexpected frenzy she took hold of a rickety chair and threw it irately against the wall. And then she fell. She fell to her knees, feet scraping against the floor and head bowing wretchedly. She exhaled loudly, feeling the grievance of her actions take hold and suffocate her state of mind. Breathing, reassuring herself, she felt the coldness of the night's air cruelly affect her body. The perspiration caused her to shiver, but she doesn't care.

Moving slowly, crawling desolately over the bitter floor and hunching her shoulders, she ambled pitiably over the splintered shards of wood until she finally pressed her withered body into the corner of her room. Lamenting, wallowing fruitlessly… she stays there until the cold break of morning light falls over her bloodied arm.

And still, she can hear him. She could hear the horrid vehemence of Durza's voice echo unbearably within her shattered being. Ceaselessly throughout eternity… still…

"Pathetic…"

* * *

><p>The fading vividness of the withered sun hung low within the clouds. Against the differing structures and main edifices within Fienster's high walls, the pale hues of red and orange dispersed over the buildings and created a silhouetted city shrouded delicately by the sun. Veiled in twilight and harbored under the occurring shadows set by its illumination, the focal courtyard enclosed by the gardens looked eerily tragic given the lovely shades of red, orange, and carmine. But the assortment of colors and shadow seemed no more tragic then that of dying breath. It was more so beautiful than sad, but she thought it tragic nonetheless.<p>

A small company of individuals and residents alike were among the gardens. There were very little, unexpectedly. Children too, vibrant and youthful, were adamantly running amuck and engaging in pastimes or singing hymns. Only so few. It was soundly peculiar, she thought suddenly, watching the children as she ambled leisurely within the court. Some stared. Curiosity for her kind was nonetheless tolerable, albeit somewhat tentatively. She couldn't entail that she cared however, and so she disregarded it entirely.

Ambient, botanical ferns and plants littered the secluded court, enclosed by the buildings and set afar from the prying eyes of those whom delved beyond the gardens. Intermeshing garlands of differing flowers and vines laced the cobblestoned path, weaving, adhesive, and abundant in the alluring visage of the overhanging willows. It was a gratifying amendment, a truly serene court laced in quietude for those who sought it, despite the varying voices carried within the air. The small courtyard seemed unsuitable within a place so vast in emblematic indifference. However inept it was, Arya was grateful that such an area was accessible. If not for her frustration, her lack of empathy and given the tendency to walk wherever she fathomed, she wouldn't have discovered such a serene area beforehand.

"May I inquire as to your whereabouts?" She turned suddenly, frowning, but stopped short when her eyes perceived Eragon. He wore a leather jerkin over a deeply shaded tunic of Cerulean blue, of which his sleeves were fittingly rolled up over the base of his forearms. As well as that, a leather-bound headband was suspended over his brow. Brisingr rested aptly by his hip. And with his hand held unmoving upon its luminous pommel, his curiously lidded eyes stared intently upon her own, however cautiously. "Or perhaps I am intru-…"

A spurring shake of her head silenced his objection. "No," she said calmly. "I was merely… walking, more or less."

"More or less." He inclined his head somewhat as he smiled slightly, anticipating her words carefully before he lifted his eyes to stare at her once more. "So you wouldn't mind if I accompanied you for awhile then?"

Watching him carefully, she noted that there was neither hesitance nor apprehension in his watchfully conceived politeness and casualness toward her. He was guarded. It had been a day, give or take a day and half since their last, brief encounter with Nausada, and right now he seemed rather inquisitive about her wellbeing, but she acknowledged it as concern rather than interest. Concern?

Was he then? She noted absently, was he concerned for her? Another day, perhaps, another moment dissuaded within the past and she would have thought he was being irresponsible merely for the sake of impressing her. Never again. Instead, however, she was genuinely appreciative of his trepidation. Although, watching him now, he himself looked notably weary. "Have you eaten?" She asked offhandedly, simply.

He rebuked her question. "Have you?"

Arya watched him for a moment still, curiosity underlying her interest, but before either of them could respond, she too favored a small, delicate smile for him. "No." She looked at him once, turned, and then gestured leisurely for him to follow. "Come."

The occasional glance and pique in curiosity increased as they walked restfully side by side at an ample pace. The interests of so many, despite the lack of individuals housing the area, seemed unquestionably fascinated in the wake of both Eragon and Arya's revelation out within the open. A rarity indeed, she thought. However, as unfazed as she was with the peoples interest, she noted absently that Eragon, too, paid little attention as well. Although, when someone, mainly children, shouted his name in reverence he would incline his head kindly in gratification, smile, or respectively bow so as to seem interested. He gave thanks and laughed with the little ones. Lifting her eyes away from him, her smile deepened. He never noticed.

"I've heard," he started, tuning his head slightly to look at her attentively as they both passed through the garland archway, heading east toward the main square. "Well, I've been _informed _actually, by Nausada about this anonymous detachment of Imperial soldiers that you and kinsmen discovered. And of Murtagh…" he added. He paused before continuing. "Has there been any news of their whereabouts?"

She sighed, looking ahead. "None that I've hoped for."

"It could very well be nothing," he noted charitably, but doubt lingered soundly within his voice. "Although I find it strange that, while one detachment had been discovered, the other managed to elude you entirely."

Arya too, treading carefully along the cobble-stoned pathway of the focal avenue of Fienster's market district, inclined her head toward him thoughtfully, looking. "You believe they eluded us?" She asked.

"Well," They stopped short amongst the recurring crowds of the dwelling public, overlooking the curiously lidded stares and idle gazes that casually came their way. "Unless you were blinded," he began pensively, "or winded for that matter, _eluded_ may be just a fickle understatement, really." She recognized now, unexpectedly, coy amusement emphasized his voice. They stood deftly apart by no more than a small foot or so between them, he watching her fixedly, as though waiting for something, and she him. Silence, despite the attentive crowds, became them. He was jeering her, a small taunt on his behalf in order to kindle something she couldn't name, but she could see the smile within his eyes…

Whether he did this to mock her or to divert her attention from the troubles that plagued her, she couldn't be sure. The thought suddenly provoked a sole question to her dilemma. How would he, Eragon, whom had barely spoken to her or acknowledged her these few passing weeks, _know_ of her troubles? Rendered under the enigma, she felt… exposed, suddenly. She had no need for his sympathy, she didn't want it. But still, as his eyes held hers unmoving, the thought did provoke something profoundly foreign. A feeling strangely unlike anything else experienced beforehand.

Gratitude… Affection…

She held his gaze deliberately as the consistent throngs of people materialized by. Whatever feeling of apprehension held her previously suddenly dispersed, and whilst she felt the eyes of many delve between both Rider and Elf, she perceived only his, only Eragons eyes.

"I must confess, Arya," he declared suddenly, softly now, inclining his head somewhat as though watchful of the calamities running rampant within her eyes, as though he could _see everything_ plaguing her from within. "I, well… I have little interest in soldiers being led astray," he professed, smiling kindly. "I don't care who eluded who, or whether or not Murtagh's carefully conceived strategy, whatever that may be, turns out to be completely folly." She frowned, watching him intently and processing his sudden turn of disposition. He continued gently. "I merely wondered about you," he said, "Nothing more." He explained this slowly, hesitantly, as though worried that she would rebuke him into silence and leave him without conjecture. She thought as much, but the possibility seemed ridiculous. Her eyes fell at her feet somberly, and then silence.

He spoke again once more. "Just a moment…" Looking up, she watched intriguingly as he suddenly fell deftly into the spurring crowds, moving away and disappearing entirely amongst the masses. Guarded under the scrutiny of so many, Arya surveyed his whereabouts, but he'd already evaded her prying eyes. Confused, she instead moved to follow. But alas, her small search was futile. He was nowhere to be found. Moving off into the shadows spurred by the fading hours of daylight, she favored a small bench secluded by a small, granite foundation. Cool water flowed within its small interior, and merely by the district furthest away from most of the cities populace, all was audibly quiet, save for a few passing individuals.

She waited, forestalled somewhat by the fading vividness of the light. At last, as her eyes perceived a subtle stir from amongst the shadows, she saw him. He'd removed the headband previously secured around his forehead, and instead she saw it fixed loosely over the pommel of Brisingr. His hands were behind his back. He'd known where to find her quiet easily without dispute, and as such, she wondered upon the causality of his intuition do so. Had he been watching her? As she him? Curiosity laced her rationale, but it didn't become her. She'd thought him odd, beforehand, when he had aptly excused himself and disappeared without a second thought. But no longer, because her question was shortly answered as he came forthwith to stand before her. He looked down fascinatingly.

"Have you eaten?" He asked again, deliberately, knowing full well that he'd asked her the same query but a moment ago. His hands came from behind his back, revealing a small assortment of rations and fruits, barely enough to fit within the palms of his hands. Two wild plums and small cinnamon crusts cut from a larger quantity, and within the other hand, two small but seasoned red apples. On a peculiar whim, he suddenly crouched carefully before her, hands still before him as he watched her hesitantly. Her eyes fixated his own as he spoke with a smile. "Attractive options, yes?"

"Eragon." Soft conviction laced her words delicately. Sensing his growing trepidation with her lack of emotionality in the matter, she sighed faintly and favored him a small, frail smile to reassure his temperament. "I…" she stopped, thinking. She couldn't begin to fathom the course of his understanding, or to where it extended and weakened, but she could feel the correlation of feeling between them, between one another without hindrance. She could feel his concern for her, somehow, his tenderness, and his manner to exude both. To intermesh them together, to be one and the same, and to exact and convey his every subtle hint of fear and anxiety he had for her. It was so she could understand just how much, be it trivial or immense, just _how much _he cared for her wellbeing. Promptly surpassing her sensibility and suddenly feeling unnerved by the hidden revelation, she declared offhandedly, "You are the most unusual being I have ever encountered." She began to tremble slightly, however, she controlled herself. Although she knew there was no point trying to hide it from him.

And then he laughed. "Aren't we all?"

"Whenever I think I've assumed every feasible portion of your personality, you surpass it entirely."

"Change in inevitable," he said truthfully. "And too often we cannot help it. Too often it is needed." He never wavered as he remained crouched before her, holding out the small portions of food and expecting her to take them from his palm. A consoling gesture offered as a means of comfort, from one friend to another. Again, swaying herself inexplicably upon the promise of his words, she noted summarily, and almost unexpectedly, the sudden change of sentiment behind his eyes. He closed them shortly after his profession, looking away from her, but as his eye lids slipped open once more, she saw it. It happened quickly, and rendered swiftly under the veiled inlets of his encumbered eyes. He acted under a false guise, delved from the belief that he could never control himself around her. This was never stated, but she saw it as easily as he had seen her distress. It was there, subdued, but there nevertheless. She was terrified by the level of depth revealed by a grieved look.

Upon an urging impulse, Arya reached out for him as he moved to kneel. She clasped one of her hands over his wrist, and feeling now, suddenly, the strong, evocative and subliminal pulse of blood beating within his vein. With one hand firmly around his wrist, she softly reached out with the other to take the small fruits and crusts from his hands. Softly, tenderly, as though willing herself to exude adoration for his kindness, she coaxed the portions from his palms, one after the other, and placed them beside her over the bench from which she sat. She did this slowly, deliberately. He needed to know her gratification, just as she needed to know the depth of his tension for her health. One and the same.

He watched her carefully, scrutinizing her every move. Again, feeling exposed under the restful awe of his gaze, she instead focused primarily on her meditative actions. Sliding her fingers down the inside of his forearm, she rested them aptly over his palm and delicately interlaced them with his own. Her profound eyes, rendered under a quiet tragedy, sought his once more. Watching her, torn and cast under the enigma of her actions, he waits for her. Kneeling before her now, unsure and completely at a loss, he whispers suddenly, "Although…" Tentatively, he reaches for her, stopping short for one second and leaving his hand in front of her… he breathed in, and then disregarded whatever conflict that plagued his mind and sympathetically placed his hand just below her jaw, within the lithe curve of her neck. She sighed as he murmured gently, "Some things can never, possibly, change." He leaned forward closely, but not too closely. She held his hand to hers. "And for that," he continued, looking conflictingly into her eyes without measure. They were dangerously breaking boundaries. "For that… I am truly… sorry." She could feel him wavering.

Night had quietly ascended. No living individual harbored the district, save two, and they were utterly alone. A pale, silver illumination conceived an eerily beautiful encirclement of both moonlight and shadow, and interlocked under the stark brilliance it created, nestled two wavered souls encumbered with anxieties that neither one could fully comprehend.

Parting her mouth slightly in uncertainty, she recalled latently when their positions had been reversed, with her consoling him instead of he her. Over the parapet wall of the Keep, when he'd felt utterly and substantially lost. It struck her as profound, deeply affecting and unimaginably powerful, only… now, it appeared to be stronger. Holding him to her, lifting her other hand once more and seizing the collar of his tunic, she fell forward suddenly, completely and without objection. He moved to hold her against him tightly, securing his grip around her and moving to enfold his arms up and around her back. Collapsing into his embrace, she surrendered herself entirely and cried softly into his neck.

There were no tears shed, no regrettable sentiments forsaken into nothingness. No, she simply, intimately, held his body to hers and whimpered dejectedly without fear, without being utterly alone. She allowed it to commence. She allowed him to hold her, caress her, and soothe her quaking despairs. She needed him to understand, she wanted him to understand. Even now, feeling his tentative hands stir and embrace her shivering body, she wanted him to… feel, _experience_, everything. A single tear, a single, provocative tear fell from her eye as she fell against his kneeling disposition. Arya felt him exhale heavily against her, animatedly, as he held her against him. Pressing herself into his neck, she felt him chafe his cheek against her head as he rested his nose fervently into her silken tresses, feeling him part his lips just above her ear. They held one another restfully, a union of fortitude more than anything else. A haven conceived beyond the boundaries of mundane comprehension.

"I-I'm so sorry…" he whispered distraughtly into her hair, arms quaking and hands fanatic to keep her against him. He breathed in heavily, almost desperately.

Ignoring his baseless apology, she settled for the only explanation that simmered irreversibly from amongst the ashes of her misery. "You never had to be, Eragon."

And with that, she felt her body descend further into his imperishable embrace as his arms tightened around her.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for the cluttered delay. The ultimate showdown of destiny awaits me within a dull and tediously clichéd rite of passage all ragtag teens must unfortunately withstand.<strong>

**Exams.**

**The longest you'll have to wait for the next update may be up two to three weeks tops. I'm sorry, really. It was a jumbled disarray merely to try and get this posted, and as luck would have it (or hard work) I've updated. Please, review and send me feedback. Don't just leave. The kudos however, goes out to those few supportive reviewers, my respect goes out to you folks. Stay tuned.  
><strong>


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